daily in his mind some idea of reward. She had never thanked
him--he hoped that she never would--but he had surely a right to claim
some measure of her thoughts, some light place in her life.

"Please look at me," he begged, a little abruptly.

She turned her head in some surprise. Francis was almost handsome in the
clear Spring sunlight, his face alight with animation, his deep-set
grey eyes full of amused yet anxious solicitude. Even as she appreciated
these things and became dimly conscious of his eager interest, her
perturbation seemed to grow.

"Well?" she ventured.

"Do I look like a person who knew what he was talking about?" he asked.

"On the whole, I should say that you did," she admitted.

"Very well, then," he went on cheerfully, "believe me when I say that
the shadow which depresses you all the time now will pass. I say this
confidently," he added, his voice softening, "because I hope to be
allowed to help. Haven't you guessed that I am very glad indeed to see
you again?"

She came to a sudden standstill. They had just passed through Lansdowne
Passage and were in the quiet end of Curzon Street.

"But you must not talk to me like that!" she expostulated.

"Why not?" he demanded. "We have met under strange and untoward
circumstances, but are you so very different from other women?"

For a single moment she seemed infinitely more human, startled, a
little nervous, exquisitely sympathetic to an amazing and unexpected
impression. She seemed to look with glad but terrified eyes towards the
vision of possible things--and then to realise that it was but a trick
of the fancy and to come shivering back to the world of actualities.

"I am very different," she said quietly. "I have lived my life. What I
lack in years has been made up to me in horror. I have no desire now
but to get rid of this aftermath of years as smoothly and quickly as
possible. I do not wish any man, Mr. Ledsam, to talk to me as you are
doing."

"You will not accept my friendship?"

"It is impossible," she replied.

"May I be allowed to call upon you?" he went on, doggedly.

"I do not receive visitors," she answered.

They were walking slowly up Curzon Street now. She had given him every
opportunity to leave her, opportunities to which he was persistently
blind. Her obstinacy had been a shock to him.

"I am sorry," he said, "but I cannot accept my dismissal like this. I
shall appeal to your father. However much he may dislike me