ment which deepened into stupefaction when she saw him lift the
huge bundle in his arms and stalk away with it down the street. She
turned a scared face at me.

"It's washing," she said.

Pasquale paused, looked round and motioned her onward. She followed
without a word, holding the trim silver mounted umbrella, and I
mechanically brought up the rear. It had all happened so quickly that I
too was confused. The scanty populace in the rain-filled street stared
and gaped. A shambling fellow in corduroys bawled an obscene jest.
Pasquale put down his bundle.

"Do you want to be sent to hell by lightning?" he asked, with the evil
snarl of the lips.

"No," said the man, sheering off.

"I'm glad," remarked Pasquale, picking up the bundle. And we resumed our
progress.

Luckily a four-wheeled cab overtook us. Pasquale stopped it, squeezed
the bundle inside, and held the door open for the faltering and
bewildered woman, as if she had been the authentic duchessa at Ealing.

"You were saying, Ordeyne," he observed, as the cabman drove off with
three shillings and his incoherent fare, "you were saying that your
breakfast disagreed with you."

In spite of my heaviness of heart, I laughed and loved the man. There
was something fantastically chivalrous in the action; something superb
in the contempt of convention; something whimsical, adventurous,
unexpected; and something divine in the wrathful pity; and something
irresistible in his impudent apostrophe to myself. It has been the one
flash of comfort during this long and desolate day.

I have kept my promise to Judith. I have lunched and dined at the club,
and in the library of the club I have tried to while away the hours.
I intended this morning to make the necessary arrangements for the
marriage. After my interview with Judith I had not the heart. I put it
off till to-morrow. I have observed the day as a day of mourning. I have
worn sackcloth and ashes. I have done such penance as I could for the
grievous fault I have committed. Carlotta is in bed and asleep. She went
early, says Antoinette, having a bad headache. No wonder, poor child.

A few moments ago I was tempted to peep into her room and satisfy myself
that she was not ailing. A headache is the common precursor to many
maladies. But I remembered my promise and refrained. The cooing notes of
the voice would have called me to her side, and her arms would have been
around my neck and I should have forgotten Judit