first-floor front, and not in any private little parlour as he had
expected. This cast a distressingly business-like colour over their
first meeting after so many years of severance. The woman he had
wronged stood before him, well-dressed, even to his metropolitan
eyes, and her manner as she came up to him was dignified even to
hardness. She certainly was not glad to see him. But what could he
expect after a neglect of twenty years!

'How do you do, Mr. Millborne?' she said cheerfully, as to any chance
caller. 'I am obliged to receive you here because my daughter has a
friend downstairs.'

'Your daughter--and mine.'

'Ah--yes, yes,' she replied hastily, as if the addition had escaped
her memory. 'But perhaps the less said about that the better, in
fairness to me. You will consider me a widow, please.'

'Certainly, Leonora . . . ' He could not get on, her manner was so
cold and indifferent. The expected scene of sad reproach, subdued to
delicacy by the run of years, was absent altogether. He was obliged
to come to the point without preamble.

'You are quite free, Leonora--I mean as to marriage? There is nobody
who has your promise, or--'

'O yes; quite free, Mr. Millborne,' she said, somewhat surprised.

'Then I will tell you why I have come. Twenty years ago I promised
to make you my wife; and I am here to fulfil that promise. Heaven