he turned down the Embankment after leaving the house. She always found
the river strong and restful. So it was not only bad women that needed
to be afraid of themselves--even to the most high-class young woman, with
letters after her name, and altruistic interests: even to her, also, the
longing for the lover's clasp. Flossie had been right. Mother Nature
was not to be flouted of her children--not even of her new daughters; to
them, likewise, the family trait.

She would have run away if she could, leaving him to guess at her real
reason--if he were smart enough. But that would have meant excuses and
explanations all round. She was writing a daily column of notes for
Greyson now, in addition to the weekly letter from Clorinda; and Mrs.
Denton, having compromised with her first dreams, was delegating to Joan
more and more of her work. She wrote to Mrs. Phillips that she was
feeling unwell and would be unable to lunch with them on the Sunday, as
had been arranged. Mrs. Phillips, much disappointed, suggested
Wednesday; but it seemed on Wednesday she was no better. And so it
drifted on for about a fortnight, without her finding the courage to come
to any decision; and then one morning, turning the corner into Abingdon
Street, she felt a slight pull at her sleeve; and Hilda was beside her.
The child had shown an uncanny intuition in not knocking at the door.
Joan had been fearing that, and would have sent down word that she was
out. But it had to be faced.

"Are you never coming again?" asked the child.

"Of course," answered Joan, "when I'm better. I'm not very well just
now. It's the weather, I suppose."

The child turned her head as they walked and looked at her. Joan felt
herself smarting under that look, but persisted.

"I'm very much run down," she said. "I may have to go away."

"You promised to help him," said the child.

"I can't if I'm ill," retorted Joan. "Besides, I am helping him. There
are other ways of helping people than by wasting their time talking to
them."

"He wants you," said the child. "It's your being there that helps him."

Joan stopped and turned. "Did he send you?" she asked.

"No," the child answered. "Mama had a headache this morning, and I
slipped out. You're not keeping your promise."

Palace Yard, save for a statuesque policeman, was empty.

"How do you know that my being with him helps him?" asked Joan.

"You know things when you love anybody," explained the