Some good angel of a class corresponding in the celestial
world to that of Minnie in this, only stopped her in time, and gave a
little obliqueness to the response.

"I hope we shall see you often," she said, which was pleasant but
discouraging, and then began to talk about the Eustace Thynnes, who were
at present of great use to her as a diversion to any more embarrassing
subject of conversation. Chatty scarcely spoke during this drive, which
seemed to her the last they should take together. The streets flying
behind them, the scenes of the brief drama falling back into distance,
the tranquillity of home before, and all this exciting episode of life
becoming as if it had never been, occupied her mind. She had settled all
that in her evening meditation. It was all over; this was what she said
to herself. She must not allow even to her own heart any thought of
renewal, any idea that the break was temporary. Chatty was aware that
she had received all his overtures, all his amiabilities (which was
what it seemed to come to) with great and unconcealed pleasure. To think
that he had nothing but civility in his mind all the time gave a blow to
her pride, which was mortal. She did not wear her pride upon her sleeve,
though she had worn her heart upon it. Her nature indeed was full of
the truest humility; but there was a latent pride which, when it was
reached, vibrated through all her being. No more, she was saying to
herself. Oh, never more. She had been deceived, though most likely he
had never wished to deceive her. It was she who had deceived herself;
but that was not possible, ever again.

"We have not thanked you half enough," said Mrs. Warrender, as he stood
at the door of the railway carriage. "I will tell Theo that you have
been everything to us. If you are as good to all the mothers and sisters
of all your old schoolfellows----"

"You do me a great wrong," he said, "as if I thought of you as the
mother of----" His eyes strayed to Chatty, who met them with a smile
which was quite steady. She was a little pale, but that was all. "Some
time," he added hastily, holding Mrs. Warrender's hand, "I may be able
to explain myself a little better than that."

"Shall I say if you are as kind to all forlorn ladies astray in London?"

Dick's face clouded over as if (she thought) he were about to cry. Men
don't cry in England, but there is a kind of mortification, humiliation,
a sense of being persistently misunderstood, and of