ly sane, in fact. His life
had been so long purely intellectual that this sudden strain of passion
and fierce practical interests seemed to unhinge him, to destroy his
mental balance.

He bethought him. This afternoon he knew she had a last rehearsal at
Searle House. Afterwards her custom was to come back from St. James's
Park to High Street, Kensington, and walk up the hill to her own home.
He knew it, for on two occasions after these rehearsals he had been at
Lerwick Gardens, waiting for her, with Agnes and Mrs. Leyburn. Would she
go this afternoon? A subtle instinct told him that she would.

* * * * *

It was nearly six o'clock that evening when Rose, stepping out from the
High Street station, crossed the main road and passed into the darkness
of one of the streets leading up the hill. She had forced herself to go,
and she would go alone. But as she toiled along she felt weary and
bruised all over. She carried with her a heart of lead--a sense of utter
soreness--a longing to hide herself from eyes and tongues. The only
thing that dwelt softly in the shaken mind was a sort of inconsequent
memory of Mr. Flaxman's manner at the rehearsal. Had she looked so ill?
She flushed hotly at the thought, and then realised again, with a sense
of childish comfort, the kind look and voice, the delicate care shown in
shielding her from any unnecessary exertion, the brotherly grasp of the
hand with which he had put her into the cab that took her to the
Underground.

Suddenly, where the road made a dark turn to the right, she saw a man
standing. As she came nearer she saw that it was Langham.

'You!' she cried, stopping.

He came up to her. There was a light over the doorway of a large
detached house not far off, which threw a certain illumination over him,
though it left her in shadow. He said nothing, but he held out both his
hands mutely. She fancied rather than saw the pale emotion of his look.

'What?' she said, after a pause. 'You think to-night is last night! You
and I have nothing to say to each other, Mr. Langham.'

'I have everything to say,' he answered, under his breath; 'I have
committed a crime--a villainy.'

'And it is not pleasant to you?' she said, quivering. 'I am sorry--I
cannot help you. But you are wrong--it was no crime--it was necessary
and profitable, like the doses of one's childhood! Oh! I might have
guessed you would do this; No, Mr. Langham, I am in no danger of an
i