She started, and "put herself under lock and key" immediately. "Miss
Hilary; you do look so tired!"

"Do I? Then we will go and sit down in this baker's shop, and get
rested and fed. We cannot afford to wear ourselves out, you know. We
have a great deal to do to-day."

More indeed, than she calculated, for they walked up one street and
down another, investigating at least twenty lodgings before any
appeared which seemed fit for them. Yet some place must be found
where Johanna's poor, tired head could rest that night. At last,
completely exhausted, with that oppressive exhaustion which seems to
crush mind as well as body after a day's wandering in London.
Hilary's courage began to ebb. Oh for an arm to lean on, a voice to
listen for, a brave heart to come to her side, saying, "Do not be
afraid, there are two of us!" And she yearned, with an absolutely
sick yearning such as only a woman who now and then feels the utter
helplessness of her womanhood can know, for the only arm she cared to
lean on, the only voice dear enough to bring her comfort, the only
heart that she felt she could trust.

Poor Hilary! And yet why pity her? To her three alternatives could
but happen: were Robert Lyon true to her she would be his entirely
and devotedly, to the end of her days; did he forsake her, she would
forgive him should he die, she would be faithful to him eternally.
Love of this kind may know anguish, but not the sort of anguish that
lesser and weaker loves do. If it is certain of nothing else, it can
always be certain of itself.