The fog again enveloped them and seemed to cut them off from the
observation of passers-by. It was as if their tenderness for each
other had found an oasis in the wilderness of London's
heartlessness.

Mavis wept unrestrainedly, contentedly, as if secure or sympathetic
understanding. Although he spoke, she gave small heed to his words.
She revelled in the unaccustomed luxury of friendship expressed by a
man for whom she, already, had something in the nature of an
affectionate regard.

Presently, when she became calmer, she gave more attention to what
he was saying.

"You must give me your address and I'll write to my people at once,"
he said. "The mater will be no end of glad to see you again, and you
must come down. I'll be down often and--and--Oh, little Mavis, won't
it be wonderful, if all our lives we were to bless the day we met
again?"

Although her sobs had ceased, she did not reply.

Two obsessions occupied her thoughts: one was an instinct of
abasement before the man who had such a tender concern for her
future; the other, a fierce pride, which revolted at the thought of
her being under a possibly lifelong obligation to the man with whom,
in the far-off days of her childhood, she had been on terms of
economic equality. He produced his handkerchief and gently wiped her
eyes. She did not know whether to be grateful for, or enraged at,
this attention. The two conflicting emotions surged within her;