"Then go on thinking, there's an angel; think hard and continually until
you evolve that blessed instrument of progression. I say, I haven't a
lamp."

"I'll lend you mine," suggested Morris.

"No; other people's lamps always go out with me, and so do my own, for
that matter. I'll risk it; I know the policeman, and if we meet I will
argue with him. Good-bye; don't forget we are coming to dinner to-morrow
night. It's a party, isn't it?"

"I believe so."

"What a bore, I must unpack my London dresses. Well, good-bye again."

"Good-bye, dear," answered Morris, and she was gone.

"'Dear,'" thought Mary to herself; "he hasn't called me that since I was
sixteen. I wonder why he does it now? Because I have been scolding him,
I suppose; that generally makes men affectionate."

For a while she glided forward through the grey twilight, and then began
to think again, muttering to herself:

"You idiot, Mary, why should you be pleased because he called you
'dear'? He doesn't really care two-pence about you; his blood goes no
quicker when you pass by and no slower when you stay away. Why do you
bother about him? and what made you talk all that stuff this afternoon?
Because you think he is in a queer way, and that if he goes on giving
himself up to his fancies he will become mad--yes, mad--because--Oh!