shadowy forms of a closely packed crowd of people were dimly visible
through the uncurtained windows. I fancied that my companion's clutch
upon my arm tightened as we hurried past.

We reached a large grey stone house fronting the street. Miss Moyat
laid her hand upon the handle of the door and motioned to me to enter.

I shook my head.

"Not to-night," I shouted. "I am drenched."

She endeavoured to persuade me.

"For a few moments, at any rate," she pleaded. "The others will not be
home yet, and I will make you something hot. Father is expecting you to
supper."

I shook my head and staggered on. At the corner of the street I looked
behind. She was holding on to the door handle, still watching me, her
skirts blowing about her in strange confusion. For a moment I had half
a mind to turn back. The dead loneliness before me seemed imbued with
fresh horrors--the loneliness, my fireless grate and empty larder.
Moyat was at least hospitable. There would be a big fire, plenty to eat
and drink. Then I remembered the man's coarse hints, his unveiled
references to his daughters and his wish to see them settled in life,
his superabundance of whisky and his only half-veiled tone of patronage.
The man was within his rights. He was the rich man of the
neighbourhood, corn dealer, farmer, and horse breeder. I was an unknown
and practically destitute stranger, come from Heaven knew where, and
staying on--because it took a little less to keep body and soul together