A faint flush stole into her anæmic. One realized then that under
different conditions she might have been pretty. Her face was no longer
expressionless.

"You are so kind," she said, softly. "I shall always like to think of
this. And yet--it is impossible."

"Why?"

She hesitated.

"It is difficult to explain," she said. "But my being here makes a
difference. I found it out once when I went away for a week. Some of--of
mother's friends came to the house then whom she will not have when I am
here. If I were away altogether--oh, I can't explain, but I would not
dare to go."

Mannering seemed to have much to say--and said nothing. This queer,
pale-faced girl, with her earnest eyes and few simple words, had silenced
him. She was right--right at least from her own point of view. A certain
sense of shame suddenly oppressed him. He was acutely conscious of his
only half-admitted reason for this visit. He had argued for himself. It
was his own passionate desire to free himself from associations that were
little short of loathsome which had prompted this visit. And then what he
had dreaded most of all happened. As they sat facing one another in the
silent, half-darkened room, Mannering trying to bring himself into accord
with half-admitted but repugnant convictions, she watching him
hopelessly, the tinkle of a hansom bell sounded outside. The sudden
stopping of a horse, the rattle of a latchkey, and she was in the room.