"Douglas," she said, "you don't understand Joan. I am not sure that
even I, who live with her, do. She reminds me sometimes of those women
of the French revolution. There is a light in her eyes when she speaks
of you, which makes me shiver. Stay in London if you must, but pray
always that chance may not bring you two together."

He answered her with an affectation of lightness, but her words were not
without effect upon him. He paid the bill and she lowered her veil.
Out in the street he would have called a hansom, but she checked him.

"An omnibus, if you please, Douglas!" she exclaimed. "Joan would never
forgive me the extravagance if she saw me in a cab. I can find one at
the corner, and I should feel so much more comfortable if you would
leave me here."

He looked down at her and realised once more the dainty Watteau--like
grace of her oval face and slim, supple figure. He thought of the days
when they had stolen out together on to the hillside, oftenest in the
falling twilight, sometimes even in the grey dawn, and his heart beat
regretfully. How was it that in those days he had never more fully
realised her charms?

"I hate letting you go alone," he said, truthfully; "and I certainly
cannot let you go like this, without any idea as to your whereabouts."

"We are staying in Wensum Street," she said. "I tell you that you may
avoid the neighbourhood. If I am to see you again, it certainly must
not be there."