been only her mother, she might have faced her--but
Joan! Home in this plight, at this hour, hatless, and with swollen
face, to meet Joan's eyes and questions!--she shivered at the idea.
Moreover, the whole PENSION would get to know what had happened to her;
she would need to bear inquisitive looks and words; she would have to
explain, or, still worse, to invent and tell stories again; and of what
use were they now, when all was over? A feeling of lassitude overcame
her--an inability to begin fresh. All over: he would never put his arm
round her again, never come towards her, careless and smiling, and call
her his "little, little girl."

She sobbed to herself as she walked. Everything was bleak, and black,
and cheerless. She would perhaps die of the cold, and then all of them,
Joan in particular, would be filled with remorse. She stood and looked
at the inky water of the river between its stone walls. She had read of
people drowning themselves; what if she went down the steps and threw
herself in?--and she feebly fingered at the gate. But it was locked and
chained; and at the idea of her warm, soft body touching the icy water;
at the picture of herself lying drowned, with dank hair, or, like the
Christian Martyr, floating away on the surface; at the thought of their
grief, of HIM wringing his hands over her corpse, she was so moved that
she wept aloud again, and almost ran to be out of temptation's way.

It had begun to drizzle. Oh, how tired she was! And she was obliged
constantly to dodge impertinently staring men. In a long, wide street,
she entered a door-way that was not quite so dark as the others, and
sat down on the bottom step of the stairs. Here she must have dozed,
for she was roused by angry voices on the floor above. It sounded like
some one who was drunk; and she fled trembling back to the street.

A neighbouring clock struck ten. At this time of night, she could not
go home, even though she wished to. She was wandering the streets like
any outcast, late at night, without a hat--and her condition of
hatlessness she felt to be the chief stigma. But she was starving with
hunger, and so tired that she could scarcely drag one foot after the
other. Oh, what would they say if they knew what their poor little
Ephie was enduring! Her mother--Joan---Maurice!

Maurice! The thought of him came to her like a ray of light. It was to
Maurice she would turn. He would be good to her, and help her; he had
always been ki