bulances run out. Tears of excited emotion filled her eyes, and
trickled down. Steady, smooth, grey, one after the other they came
gliding, with a little burst of cheers greeting each one. All were gone
now, and she could pass in. She went to the buffet and got a large cup
of coffee, and a bun. Then, having noted the time of her early morning
train, she sought the ladies' waiting-room, and sitting down in
a corner, took out her purse and counted her money. Two pounds
fifteen-enough to go to the hotel, if she liked. But, without
luggage--it was so conspicuous, and she could sleep in this corner all
right, if she wanted. What did girls do who had no money, and no friends
to go to? Tucked away in the corner of that empty, heavy, varnished
room, she seemed to see the cruelty and hardness of life as she had
never before seen it, not even when facing her confinement. How lucky
she had been, and was! Everyone was good to her. She had no real want
or dangers, to face. But, for women--yes, and men too--who had no one to
fall back on, nothing but their own hands and health and luck, it must
be awful. That girl whose eyes had scorched her--perhaps she had no
one--nothing. And people who were born ill, and the millions of poor
women, like those whom she had gone visiting with Gratian sometimes in
the poorer streets of her father's parish--for the first time she seemed
to really know and feel the sort of lives they led. And then, Leila's
face came back to her once more--Leila whom she had robbed. And the
worst of it was, that, alongside her remorseful sympathy, she felt a
sort of satisfaction. She could not help his not loving Leila, she could
not help it if he loved herself! And he did--she knew it! To feel that
anyone loved her was so comforting. But it was all awful! And she--the
cause of it! And yet--she had never done or said anything to attract
him. No! She could not have helped it.

She had begun to feel drowsy, and closed her eyes. And gradually there
came on her a cosey sensation, as if she were leaning up against someone
with her head tucked in against his shoulder, as she had so often leaned
as a child against her father, coming back from some long darkening
drive in Wales or Scotland. She seemed even to feel the wet soft
Westerly air on her face and eyelids, and to sniff the scent of a frieze
coat; to hear the jog of hoofs and the rolling of the wheels; to feel
the closing in of the darkness. Then, so dimly and drowsily,