ll her."

Browne thanked her, and, to make assurance doubly sure, slipped five
shillings into her hand. Then, passing out of the garden, he made his
way back to the High Street. He had not proceeded more than a hundred
yards down that interesting thoroughfare, however, before he saw no
less a person than Katherine herself approaching him.

They were scarcely a dozen paces apart when she recognised him.

"Good-morning, Miss Petrovitch," he said, raising his hat and speaking
a little nervously. "I have just called at your studio in the hope
that I might see you. The woman told me that she did not know when you
would return. I thought I might possibly meet you here."

It was a poor enough excuse, but the only one he could think of at the
moment.

"You wanted to see me?" she said in a tone of surprise.

"Are you angry with me for that?" he asked. "I did not think you would
be; but if you are I will go away again. By this time you should know
that I have no desire save to make you happy."

This was the first time he had spoken so plainly. Her face paled a
little.

"I did not know that you were so anxious to see me," she said, "or I
would have made a point of being at home."

All this time they had been standing on the spot where they had first
met.

"Perhaps you will permit me to walk a little way with you?" said
Browne, half afraid that she would refuse.

"I shall be very pleased," she answered promptly.

Thereupon they walked back in the direction of the studio.

At the gate they stopped. She turned and faced him, and as she did so
she held out her hand; it was plain that she had arrived at a decision
on some important point.

"Good-bye, Mr. Browne," she said, and as she said it Browne noticed
that her voice trembled and her eyes filled with tears. He could bear
it no longer.

"Miss Petrovitch," he began, "you must forgive my rudeness; but I feel
sure that you are not happy. Will you not trust me and let me help
you? You know how gladly I would do so."

"There is no way in which you can help me," she answered, and then she
bade him good-bye, and, with what Browne felt sure was a little sob,
vanished into the studio. For some moments he stood waiting where he
was, overwhelmed by the suddenness of her exit, and hoping she might
come out again; then, realising that she did not intend doing so, he
turned on his heel and made his way back to the High Street, and so to
Park Lane. His afternoon