Would she
go this afternoon? A subtle instinct told him that she would.

It was nearly six o'clock that evening when Rose, stepping out from the
High Street station, crossed the main road and passed into the darkness
of one of the streets leading up the hill. She had forced herself to
go and she would go alone. But as she toiled along she felt weary and
bruised all over. She carried with her a heart of lead--a sense of utter
soreness--a longing to hide herself from eyes and tongues. The only
thing that dwelt softly in the shaken mind was a sort of inconsequent
memory of Mr. Flaxman's manner at the rehearsal. Had she looked so ill?
She flushed hotly at the thought, and then realized again, with a sense
of childish comfort, the kind look and voice, the delicate care shown in
shielding her from any unnecessary exertion, the brotherly grasp of
the hand with which he had put her into the cab that took her to the
Underground.

Suddenly, where the road made a dark turn to the right, she saw a man
standing. As she came nearer she saw that it was Langham.

'You!' she cried, stopping.

He came up to her. There was a light over the doorway of a largo
detached, house not far off, which threw a certain illumination over
him, though it left her in the shadow. He said nothing, but he held out
both his hands mutely. She fancied rather than saw the pale emotion of
his look.

'What?' she said, after a pause. 'You think to-night is last night! You
and I have nothing to say to each other, Mr. Langham.'

'I have every thing to say,' he answered, under his breath; 'I have
committed a crime--a villainy.'

'And it is not pleasant to you?' she said, quivering. 'I am sorry--I
cannot help you. But you are wrong--it was no crime--it was necessary
and profitable like the doses of one's childhood! Oh! I might have
guessed you would do this! No, Mr. Langham, I am in no danger of an
interesting decline. I have just played my concerto very fairly. I
shall not disgrace myself at the concert to-morrow night. You may be at
peace--I have learnt several things to-day that have been salutary--very
salutary.'

She paused. He walked beside her while she pelted him--unresisting,
helplessly silent.

'Don't come any farther,' she said resolutely after a minute, turning
to face him. 'Let us be quits! I was a tempting easy prey. I bear you no
malice. And do not let me break your friendship with Robert; that began
before this foolish business--it shou