LITMIR.BIZ

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Vesper, the friend I live with.'

      'Will you give me a few minutes now?' he asked humbly. 'Is it too late?'

      For reply Monica moved slowly on. They turned up one of the ways parallel with Rutland Street, and so came into the quiet district that skirts Regent's Park, Widdowson talking all the way in a strain of all but avowed tenderness, his head bent towards her and his voice so much subdued that occasionally she lost a few words.

      'I can't live without seeing you,' he said at length. 'If you refuse to meet me, I have no choice but to come wandering about the places where you are. Don't, pray don't think I spy upon you. Indeed, it is only just to see your face or your form as you walk along. When I have had my journey in vain I go back in misery. You are never out of my thoughts—never.'

      'I am sorry for that, Mr. Widdowson.'

      'Sorry? Are you really sorry? Do you think of me with less friendliness than when we had our evening on the river?'

      'Oh, not with less friendliness. But if I only make you unhappy—'

      'In one way unhappy, but as no one else ever had the power to. If you would let me meet you at certain times my restlessness would be at an end. The summer is going so quickly. Won't you come for that drive with me next Sunday? I will be waiting for you at any place you like to appoint. If you could imagine what joy it would give me!'

      Presently Monica assented. If it were fine, she would be by the southeast entrance to Regent's Park at two o'clock. He thanked her with words of the most submissive gratitude, and then they parted.

      The day proved doubtful, but she kept her appointment. Widdowson was on the spot with horse and trap. These were not, as he presently informed Monica, his own property, but hired from a livery stable, according to his custom.

      'It won't rain,' he exclaimed, gazing at the sky. 'It shan't rain! These few hours are too precious to me.'

      'It would be very awkward if it did,' Monica replied, in merry humour, as they drove along.

      The sky threatened till sundown, but Widdowson was able to keep declaring that rain would not come. He took a south-westward course, crossed Waterloo Bridge, and thence by the highways made for Herne Hill. Monica observed that he made a short detour to avoid Walworth Road. She asked his reason.

      'I hate the road!' Widdowson answered, with vehemence.

      'You hate it?'

      'Because you slaved and suffered there. If I had the power, I would destroy it—every house. Many a time,' he added, in a lower voice, 'when you were lying asleep, I walked up and down there in horrible misery.'

      'Just because I had to stand at a counter?'

      'Not only that. It wasn't fit for you to work in that way—but the people about you! I hated every face of man or woman that passed along the street.'

      'I didn't like the society.'

      'I should hope not. Of course, I know you didn't. Why did you ever come to such a place?'

      There was severity rather than sympathy in his look.

      'I was tired of the dull country life,' Monica replied frankly. 'And then I didn't know what the shops and the people were like.'

      'Do you need a life of excitement?' he asked, with a sidelong glance.

      'Excitement? No, but one must have change.'

      When they reached Herne Hill, Widdowson became silent, and presently he allowed the horse to walk.

      'That is my house, Miss Madden—the right-hand one.'

      Monica looked, and saw two little villas, built together with stone facings, porches at the doors and ornamented gables.

      'I only wanted to show it you,' he added quickly. 'There's nothing pretty or noticeable about it, and it isn't at all grandly furnished. My old housekeeper and one servant manage to keep it in order.'

      They passed, and Monica did not allow herself to look back.

      'I think it's a nice house,' she said presently.

      'All my life I have wished to have a house of my own, but I didn't dare to hope I ever should. Men in general don't seem to care so long as they have lodgings that suit them—I mean unmarried men. But I always wanted to live alone—without strangers, that is to say. I told you that I am not very sociable. When I got my house, I was like a child with a toy; I couldn't sleep for satisfaction. I used to walk all over it, day after day, before it was furnished. There was something that delighted me in the sound of my footsteps on the staircases and the bare floors. Here I shall live and die, I kept saying to myself. Not in solitude, I hoped. Perhaps I might meet some one—'

      Monica interrupted him to ask a question about some object in the landscape. He answered her very briefly, and for a long time neither spoke. Then the girl, glancing at him with a smile of apology, said in a gentle tone—

      'You were telling me how the house pleased you. Have you still the same pleasure in living there?'

      'Yes. But lately I have been hoping—I daren't say more. You will interrupt me again.'

      'Which way are we going now, Mr. Widdowson?'

      'To Streatham, then on to Carshalton. At five o'clock we will use our right as travellers, and get some innkeeper to make tea for us. Look, the sun is trying to break through; we shall have a fine evening yet. May I, without rudeness, say that you look better since you left that abominable place.'

      'Oh, I feel better.'

      After keeping his look fixed for a long time on the horse's ears, Widdowson turned gravely to his companion.

      'I told you about my sister-in-law. Would you be willing to make her acquaintance?'

      'I don't feel able to do that, Mr. Widdowson,' Monica answered with decision.

      Prepared for this reply, he began a long and urgent persuasion. It was useless; Monica listened quietly, but without sign of yielding. The subject dropped, and they talked of indifferent things.

      On the homeward drive, when the dull sky grew dusk about them, and the suburban street-lamps began to show themselves in long glimmering lines, Widdowson returned with shamefaced courage to the subject which for some hours had been in abeyance.

      'I can't part from you this evening without a word of hope to remember. You know that I want you to be my wife. Will you tell me if there is anything I can say or do to make your consent possible? Have you any doubt of me?'

      'No doubt whatever of your sincerity.'

      'In one sense, I am still a stranger to you. Will you give me the opportunity of making things between us more regular? Will you allow me to meet some friend of yours whom you trust?'

      'I had rather you didn't yet.'

      'You wish to know still more of me, personally?'

      'Yes—I think I must know you much better before I can consent to any step of that kind.'

      'But,' he urged, 'if we became acquaintances in the ordinary way, and knew each other's friends, wouldn't that be most satisfactory to you?'

      'It might be. But you forget that so much would have to be explained. I have behaved very strangely. If I told everything to my friends I should leave myself no choice.'

      'Oh, why not? You would be absolutely free. I could no more than try to recommend myself to you. If I am so unhappy as to fail, how would you be anything but quite free?'

      'But surely you must understand me. In this position, I must either not speak of you at all, or make it known that I am engaged to you. I can't have it taken for granted that I am engaged to you when I don't wish to be.'

      Widdowson's head drooped; he set his lips in a hard gloomy expression.

      'I have behaved very imprudently,' continued the girl. But I don't see—I can't see—what else I could have done. Things are so badly arranged. It wasn't possible for us to be introduced by any one who knew us both, so I had either to break off your acquaintance after that first conversation, or conduct myself as I have been doing. I think it's a very hard

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