f temper with Lettice, first for sitting by Alan at the
conversazione, and then for ostentatiously shaking hands with him on the
pavement. Her instinct told her what he was thinking.

"I am sorry it happened," she said; "but when a man is unfortunate one
need not take the opportunity of punishing him. It was far worse for him
than for us."

"I don't see that," said Graham. "And everyone has to bear his own
troubles. Besides, why should a man with such a frightful infliction
attach himself to ladies in a public place, and subject them to insult,
without so much as warning them what they might expect to meet with?"

"Were you unwarned?"

"I was not thinking of myself. You were not warned."

"I beg your pardon, I was."

"You knew his wife was alive--and--what she is?"

"Yes."

"I must say I cannot understand it."

"You would not have me kind to a man who, as you say, is frightfully
afflicted? It was for that very reason I thought we ought to be kind to
him to-night."

"My sense of duty does not lead me quite so far; and I do not wish that
Clara's should, either!"

"I am sorry," said Lettice, again.

Then there was silence in the cab; but the undutiful Clara was squeezing
her friend's hand in the dark, whilst her lord and master fumed for five
minutes in his corner. After that, he pulled the check-string.

"What are you going to do?" said Clara.

"Going back again," he said. "You women understand some things better
than we do. All the same, I don't know what would happen if you always
let your hearts lead you, and if you had no men to look after you. I
shall take a hansom and follow on."

He was too late, however, to do any good. The stream of life had swept
over the place where Alan and his wife had met, as it sweeps over all
the great city's joys and sorrows, glories and disgrace, leaving not a
vestige behind.

CHAPTER XVI.

CONCEIVED IN SORROW.

Two days later, as Lettice was hard at work in her study on a romance
which she had begun in June, at the suggestion of a friendly publisher,
she was interrupted by a knock at the door. It was a feeble knock, as of
one who was half afraid, and the voice, which she heard inquiring for
her immediately afterwards was a feeble voice, which she did not
recognize.

Nor did she at first remember the face of Mrs. Bundlecombe, when that
lady was brought into her room, so much had she changed since her last
visit to Maple Cottage. She looked ten years olde