stood scarcely anything of the enterprise beyond her own
duties, yet she was very proud of her role too. And she was glad that
the men were seemingly so careless, so disorderly, so forgetful of
details, so--in a word--childish! For it was part of her role to remind
them, to set them right, to watch over their carelessness, to restore
order where they had left disorder. In so far as her role affected them,
she condescended to them.

She informed George Cannon of her mother's indisposition, and that she
meant to go to London the next morning, and to return most probably in a
few days. He stopped in his walk, near her. Like herself, he was not
seriously concerned about Mrs. Lessways, but he showed a courteous
sympathy.

"It's a good thing you didn't go to London when your mother went," he
said, after a little conversation.

He did not add: "You've been indispensable." He had no air of
apologizing for his insult at the tea-table. But he looked firmly at
her, with a peculiar expression.

Suddenly she felt all her slimness and fragility; she felt all the girl
in herself and all the dominant man in him, and all the empty space
around them. She went hot. Her sight became dim. She was ecstatically
blissful; she was deeply ashamed. She desired the experience to last for
ever, and him and herself to be eternally moveless; and at the same time
she desired to fly. Or rather, she had no desire to fly, but her voice
and limbs acted of themselves, against her volition.

"Good-night, then."

"But I say! Your wages. Shall I pay you now?"

"No, no! It doesn't matter in the least, thanks."

He shook hands with a careless, good-natured smile, which seemed to be
saying: "Foolish creature! You can't defend yourself, and these airs are
amusing. But I am benevolent." And she was ashamed of her shame, and
furious against the childishness that made her frown, and lower her
eyes, and escape out of the room like a mouse.

CHAPTER XIV
TO LONDON

I

In the middle of the night Hilda woke up, and within a few seconds she
convinced herself that her attitude to Miss Gailey's telegram had been
simply monstrous. She saw it, in the darkness, as an enormity. She ought
to have responded to the telegram at once; she ought to have gone to
London by the afternoon train. What had there been to prevent her from
knocking at the door of the inner room, and saying to Mr. Cannon, in the
presence of no matter whom: "I am very sorry, Mr. Cannon, b