the streets--for hours and hours?"

She leant forward and looked out of the window.

"He may refuse ever to speak to me again," she said in a low voice,
almost to herself.

The exaggeration was so immense that Mary did not attempt to cope with
it, save by keeping hold of Katharine's wrist. She half expected that
Katharine might open the door suddenly and jump out. Perhaps Katharine
perceived the purpose with which her hand was held.

"Don't be frightened," she said, with a little laugh. "I'm not going to
jump out of the cab. It wouldn't do much good after all."

Upon this, Mary ostentatiously withdrew her hand.

"I ought to have apologized," Katharine continued, with an effort, "for
bringing you into all this business; I haven't told you half, either.
I'm no longer engaged to William Rodney. He is to marry Cassandra Otway.
It's all arranged--all perfectly right.... And after he'd waited in
the streets for hours and hours, William made me bring him in. He was
standing under the lamp-post watching our windows. He was perfectly
white when he came into the room. William left us alone, and we sat and
talked. It seems ages and ages ago, now. Was it last night? Have I
been out long? What's the time?" She sprang forward to catch sight of a
clock, as if the exact time had some important bearing on her case.

"Only half-past eight!" she exclaimed. "Then he may be there still." She
leant out of the window and told the cabman to drive faster.

"But if he's not there, what shall I do? Where could I find him? The
streets are so crowded."

"We shall find him," Mary repeated.

Mary had no doubt but that somehow or other they would find him. But
suppose they did find him? She began to think of Ralph with a sort of
strangeness, in her effort to understand how he could be capable of
satisfying this extraordinary desire. Once more she thought herself back
to her old view of him and could, with an effort, recall the haze
which surrounded his figure, and the sense of confused, heightened
exhilaration which lay all about his neighborhood, so that for months at
a time she had never exactly heard his voice or seen his face--or so it
now seemed to her. The pain of her loss shot through her. Nothing would
ever make up--not success, or happiness, or oblivion. But this pang was
immediately followed by the assurance that now, at any rate, she knew
the truth; and Katharine, she thought, stealing a look at her, did not
know the truth; yes,