such a speech would have fallen in with any note of flirtation he had as
yet perceived in her. She only replied: "Ah yes, but I don't think he'll
come. He recommended me not to expect him." Then she gaily but all
gently added: "He said it wasn't fair to you. But I think I could manage
two."

"So could I," Paul Overt returned, stretching the point a little to meet
her. In reality his appreciation of the occasion was so completely an
appreciation of the woman before him that another figure in the scene,
even so esteemed a one as St. George, might for the hour have appealed to
him vainly. He left the house wondering what the great man had meant by
its not being fair to him; and, still more than that, whether he had
actually stayed away from the force of that idea. As he took his course
through the Sunday solitude of Manchester Square, swinging his stick and
with a good deal of emotion fermenting in his soul, it appeared to him he
was living in a world strangely magnanimous. Miss Fancourt had told him
it was possible she should be away, and that her father should be, on the
following Sunday, but that she had the hope of a visit from him in the
other event. She promised to let him know should their absence fail, and
then he might act accordingly. After he had passed into one of the
streets that open from the Square he stopped, without definite
intentions, looking sceptically for a cab. In a moment he saw a hansom
roll through the place from the other side and come a part of the way
toward him. He was on the point of hailing the driver when he noticed a
"fare" within; then he waited, seeing the man prepare to deposit his
passenger by pulling up at one of the houses. The house was apparently
the one he himself had just quitted; at least he drew that inference as
he recognised Henry St. George in the person who stepped out of the
hansom. Paul turned off as quickly as if he had been caught in the act
of spying. He gave up his cab--he preferred to walk; he would go nowhere