dyce wrote what she had to say. The little
dark room where she sat was without sound, save for the buzzing of a
largish fly in a streak of sunlight below the blind. It was dingy in
colour; its furniture was old. At the Stoics' was found neither the new
art nor the resplendent drapings of those larger clubs sacred to the
middle classes. The little writing-room had an air of mourning: "I am so
seldom used; but be at home in me; you might find me tucked away in
almost any country-house!"

Yet many a solitary Stoic had sat there and written many a note to many a
woman. George, perhaps, had written to Helen Bellew at that very table
with that very pen, and Mrs. Pendyce's heart ached jealously.

"DEAREST GEORGE" (she wrote),

"I have something very particular to tell you. Do come to me at
Green's Hotel. Come soon, my dear. I shall be lonely and unhappy
till I see you.
"Your loving
"MARGERY PENDYCE."

And this note, which was just what she would have sent to a lover, took
that form, perhaps unconsciously, because she had never had a lover thus
to write to.

She slipped the note and half a crown diffidently into the porter's hand;
refused his offer of some tea, and walked vaguely towards the Park.

It was five o'clock; the sun was brighter than ever. People in carriages
and people on foot in one leisurely, unending stream were filing in at
Hyde Park Corner. Mrs. Pendyce went, too, and timidly--she was unused
to traffic--crossed to the further side and took a chair. Perhaps George
was in the Park and she might see him; perhaps Helen Bellew was there,
and she might see her; and the thought of this made her heart beat and
her eyes under their uplifted brows stare gently at each figure-old men
and young men, women of the world, fresh young girls. How charming they
looked, how sweetly they were dressed! A feeling of envy mingled with
the joy she ever felt at seeing pretty things; she was quite unconscious
that she herself was pretty under that hat whose brim turned down all
round. But as she sat a leaden feeling slowly closed her heart, varied
by nervous flutterings, when she saw someone whom she ought to know. And
whenever, in response to a salute, she was forced to bow her head, a
blush rose in her cheeks, a wan smile seemed to make confession:

"I know I look a guy; I know it's odd for me to be sitting here alone!"

She felt old--older than s