A young lad—Roding took him for a footman, or a groom by the neat black garb—was halted some paces away from Valade, his hat in his hand as he made pretence of fanning himself. He had “put his foot down,” and said she must not go. Softly she rose to her feet. Her sense of humour could not wholly resist his abnormal gravity. ” “But there is something more. “Where?” “To that ball. The petals have fallen—the red petals we loved so. He flung aside all his talk of help and disinterested friendship as though it had never been even a disguise between them, as though from the first it was no more than a fancy dress they had put quite understandingly upon their relationship. The red glare fell upon the slimy brick-work, and tinged the inky waters below. Their chit-chat stopped when they reached the bench. "And you will answer it frankly?" "Certainly. He saluted awkwardly. You must come back. I shall have to discover one suitable. “Do you mean, aunt,” she asked, “that my father thought I had gone off—with some man?” “What else COULD he think? Would any one DREAM you would be so mad as to go off alone?” “After—after what had happened the night before?” “Oh, why raise up old scores? If you could see him this morning, his poor face as white as a sheet and all cut about with shaving! He was for coming up by the very first train and looking for you, but I said to him, ‘Wait for the letters,’ and there, sure enough, was yours.
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