interest, as Wallace imagines, and that's a poor sort of stepping-stone
to love! And if it were ever possible that she should, this afternoon has
taken away the possibility. For, however magnanimous a woman may be, a
thing like that rankles: it can't help it. She will feel the sting of it
worse to-morrow than to-day, and, though she will tell herself that she
bears no grudge, it will leave a gulf between us. For, of course, she
must go on acting, and, whatever depressions she may have, she must
believe in herself; no one can go on working without it, and I shall
always recall to her something harsh and humiliating!'

'Supposing, by any chance, it were not so--supposing I were able to
gather up my relation with her again and make it a really friendly one--I
should take, I think, a very definite line; I should make up my mind
to be of use to her. After all, it is true what she says: there are many
things in me that might be helpful to her, and everything there was she
should have the benefit of. I would make a serious purpose of it. She
should find me a friend worth having.'

His thoughts wandered on a while in this direction. It was pleasant to
see himself in the future as Miss Bretherton's philosopher and friend,
but in the end the sense of reality gained upon his dreams. 'I am a
fool!' he said to himself resolutely at last, 'and I may as well go to
bed and put her out of my mind. The chance is over--gone--done with, if
it ever existed.'

The next morning, on coming down to breakfast, he saw among his letters a
handwriting which startled him. Where had he seen it before? In Wallace's
hand three days ago? He opened it, and found the following note:--

'MY DEAR MR. KENDAL--You know, I think, that I am off next week--on