and a second.  He had had naturally to return to the real mistress of his fate; she had insisted—­she knew how to insist, and he couldn’t put in another hour.  There was always a day when she called time.  It was known to our young friend moreover that he had now been dispatching telegrams from other offices.  She knew at last so much that she had quite lost her earlier sense of merely guessing.  There were no different shades of distinctness—­it all bounced out.

CHAPTER XXII

Eighteen days elapsed, and she had begun to think it probable she should never see him again.  He too then understood now:  he had made out that she had secrets and reasons and impediments, that even a poor girl at the P.O. might have her complications.  With the charm she had cast on him lightened by distance he had suffered a final delicacy to speak to him, had made up his mind that it would be only decent to let her alone.  Never so much as during these latter days had she felt the precariousness of their relation—­the happy beautiful untroubled original one, if it could only have been restored—­in which the public servant and the casual public only were concerned.  It hung at the best by the merest silken thread, which was at the mercy of any accident and might snap at any minute.  She arrived by the end of the fortnight at the highest sense of actual fitness, never doubting that her decision was now complete.  She would just give him a few days more to come back to her on a proper impersonal basis—­for even to an embarrassing representative of the casual public a public servant with a conscience did owe something—­and then would signify to Mr. Mudge that she was ready for the little home.  It had been visited, in the further talk she had had with him at Bournemouth, from garret to cellar, and they had especially lingered, with their respectively darkened brows, before the niche into which it was to be broached to her mother that she must find means to fit.

He had put it to her more definitely than before that his calculations had allowed for that dingy presence, and he had thereby marked the greatest impression he had ever made on her.  It was a stroke superior even again to his handling of the drunken soldier.  What she considered that in the face of it she hung on at Cocker’s for was something she could only have described as the common fairness of a last word.  Her actual last word had been, till it should be superseded, that she wouldn’t forsake her other friend, and it stuck to her through thick and thin that she was still at her post and on her honour.  This other friend had shown so much beauty of conduct already that he would surely after all just re-appear long enough to relieve her, to give her something she could take away.  She saw it, caught it, at times, his parting present; and there were moments when she felt herself sitting like a beggar with a hand held out to almsgiver who only fumbled.  She hadn’t