During the rest of the journey Rose was in the strangest state of mind.  She did not feel in the least ashamed of herself.  It seemed to her that what had happened was wholly natural and simple.  The extraordinary thing was that she must sit silent and with cold countenance at the distance of a few feet from a person with whom she ardently desired to converse.  Sudden illumination had wholly changed the aspect of life.  She seemed to be playing a part in a grotesque comedy rather than living in a world of grave realities.  Her father’s dignified silence struck her as intolerably absurd.  She could have burst into laughter; at moments she was indignant, irritated, tremulous with the spirit of revolt.  She detected a glance of frigid superiority with which Mr. Whiston chanced to survey the other occupants of the compartment.  It amazed her.  Never had she seen her father in such an alien light.  He bent forward and addressed to her some commonplace remark; she barely deigned a reply.  Her views of conduct, of character, had undergone an abrupt and extraordinary change.  Having justified without shadow of argument her own incredible proceeding, she judged everything and everybody by some new standard, mysteriously attained.  She was no longer the Rose Whiston of yesterday.  Her old self seemed an object of compassion.  She felt an unspeakable happiness, and at the same time an encroaching fear.

The fear predominated; when she grew aware of the streets of London looming on either hand it became a torment, an anguish.  Small-folded, crushed within her palm, the piece of paper with its still unread inscription seemed to burn her.  Once, twice, thrice she met the look of her friend.  He smiled cheerily, bravely, with evident purpose of encouragement.  She knew his face better than that of any oldest acquaintance; she saw in it a manly beauty.  Only by a great effort of self-control could she refrain from turning aside to unfold and read what he had written.  The train slackened speed, stopped.  Yes, it was London.  She must arise and go.  Once more their eyes met.  Then, without recollection of any interval, she was on the Metropolitan Railway, moving towards her suburban home.

A severe headache sent her early to bed.  Beneath her pillow lay a scrap of paper with a name and address she was not likely to forget.  And through the night of broken slumbers Rose suffered a martyrdom.  No more self-glorification!  All her courage gone, all her new vitality!  She saw herself with the old eyes, and was shame-stricken to the very heart.

Whose the fault?  Towards dawn she argued it with the bitterness of misery.  What a life was hers in this little world of choking respectabilities!  Forbidden this, forbidden that; permitted—­the pride of ladyhood.  And she was not a lady, after all.  What lady would have permitted herself to exchange names and addresses with a strange man in a railway carriage—­furtively, too, escaping her father’s observation?  If not a lady, what was she?  It meant the utter failure of her breeding and education.  The sole end for which she had lived was frustrate.  A common, vulgar young woman—­well mated, doubtless, with an impudent clerk, whose noisy talk was of beer and tobacco!