He got up and left the Park. It was ten o'clock of an April morning.
Crocuses--her flowers--were blowing sideways under a south-west wind. Blue
sky, white clouds, shining on the just and the unjust, covered her in
Yorkshire and him, her grim knight, in Mayfair. He stalked, gaunt and
haggard-eyed, down the hill, threading his way through the growing traffic
of the day, and faced his business with the lady in the case.

Mrs. Germain was serious when he entered her sitting-room. She was in a
loose morning gown of lace and pink ribbon. Pink was her colour. Her dark
eyes looked heavy. She should have been adorable, and she was--but not to
him just now. He stood before her, looked at her where she sat with her
eyes cast down at her hands in her lap. She had let them rest upon him for
the moment of his entry, but had not greeted him.

Now, as he stood watching her, she had no greeting.

"Good morning, Mary," he said presently, and she murmured a reply. He saw
at once that she was prepared for him, and began in the middle.

"A friend of mine," he said, "is alone and unhappy. I heard of it
yesterday from Chevenix. I must go and see her. I shan't be away long, and
shall then be at your disposition."

Her strength lay in her silence. She sat perfectly still, looking at her
white hands. Her heavy eyelids, weighted with all the knowledge she had,
seemed beyond her power of lifting. He was driven to speak again, and,
against his will, to defend himself.

"I am in a hatefully false position. I ought to have told you long ago all