“Don’t go into the rain, Addie,” said Sidney, pressing forwards anxiously.  “You’re doing all my work to-night.  Hallo! where did you spring from?”

It was Raphael who had elicited the exclamation.  He suddenly loomed upon the party, bearing a decrepit dripping umbrella.  “I thought I should be in time to catch you—­and to apologize,” he said, turning to Esther.

“Don’t mention it,” murmured Esther, his unexpected appearance completing her mental agitation.

“Hold the umbrella over the girls, you beggar,” said Sidney.

“Oh, I beg your pardon,” said Raphael, poking the rim against a policeman’s helmet in his anxiety to obey.

“Don’t mention it,” said Addie smiling.

“All right, sir,” growled the policeman good-humoredly.

Sidney laughed heartily.

“Quite a general amnesty,” he said.  “Ah! here’s the carriage.  Why didn’t you get inside it out of the rain or stand in the entrance—­you’re wringing wet.”

“I didn’t think of it,” said Raphael.  “Besides, I’ve only been here a few minutes.  The ’busses are so full when it rains I had to walk all the way from Whitechapel.”

“You’re incorrigible,” grumbled Sidney.  “As if you couldn’t have taken a hansom.”

“Why waste money?” said Raphael.  They got into the carriage.

“Well, did you enjoy yourselves?” he asked cheerfully.

“Oh yes, thoroughly,” said Sidney.  “Addie wasted two pocket-handkerchiefs over Ophelia; almost enough to pay for that hansom.  Miss Ansell doated on the finger of destiny and I chopped logic and swopped cigarettes with O’Donovan.  I hope you enjoyed yourself equally.”

Raphael responded with a melancholy smile.  He was seated opposite Esther, and ever and anon some flash of light from the street revealed clearly his sodden, almost shabby, garments and the weariness of his expression.  He seemed quite out of harmony with the dainty pleasure-party, but just on that account the more in harmony with Esther’s old image, the heroic side of him growing only more lovable for the human alloy.  She bent towards him at last and said:  “I am sorry you were deprived of your evening’s amusement.  I hope the reason didn’t add to the unpleasantness.”

“It was nothing,” he murmured awkwardly.  “A little unexpected work.  One can always go to the theatre.”

“Ah, I am afraid you overwork yourself too much.  You mustn’t.  Think of your own health.”

His look softened.  He was in a harassed, sensitive state.  The sympathy of her gentle accents, the concern upon the eager little face, seemed to flood his own soul with a self-compassion new to him.

“My health doesn’t matter,” he faltered.  There were sweet tears in his eyes, a colossal sense of gratitude at his heart.  He had always meant to pity her and help her; it was sweeter to be pitied, though of course she could not help him.  He had no need of help, and on second thoughts he wondered what room there was for pity.