century, which loved the decency of small, quiet things.  And in the prim sanity of her judgment upon Wason she forgot for a few instants that she was in a dream, and that the streets and the whole town appeared strange and troubling to her, and that she scarcely knew what she was doing, and that the most seductive and enchanting of created men was at her side and very content to be at her side.  And also the voice within her was hushed.

She said—­

“I don’t see the fun of having the clothes torn off my back to save a penny.  I think I shall go to Malkin’s.  I’ll get some cocoa there, too.  Mrs. Tams simply lives for cocoa.”

And Louis archly answered—­

“I’ve always wondered what Mrs. Tams reminds me of.  Now I know.  She’s exactly like a cocoa-tin dented in the middle.”

She laughed with pleasure, not because she considered the remark in the least witty, but because it was so characteristic of Louis Fores.  She wished humbly that she could say things just like that, and with caution she glanced up at him.

They went into Ted Malkin’s sober shop, where there was a nice handful of customers, in despite of Wason only five doors away.  And no sooner had Rachel got inside than she was in the dream again, and the voice resumed its monotonous phrase, and she blushed.  The swift change took her by surprise and frightened her.  She was not in Bursley, but in some forbidden city without a name, pursuing some adventure at once shameful and delicious.  A distinct fear seized her.  Her self-consciousness was intense.

And there was young Ted Malkin in his starched white shirt-sleeves and white apron and black waistcoat and tie, among his cheeses and flitches, every one of which he had personally selected and judged, weighing a piece of cheddar in his honourable copper-and-brass scales.  He was attending to two little girls.  He nodded with calm benevolence to Rachel and then to Louis Fores.  It is true that he lifted his eyebrows—­a habit of his—­at sight of Fores, but he did so in a quite simple, friendly, and justifiable manner, with no insinuations.

“In one moment, Miss Fleckring,” said he.

And as he rapidly tied up the parcel of cheese and snapped off the stout string with a skilled jerk of the hand, he demanded calmly—­

“How’s Mrs. Maldon to-night?”

“Much better,” said Rachel, “thank you.”

And Louis Fores joined easily in—­

“You may say, very much better.”

“That’s rare good news!  Rare good news!” said Malkin.  “I heard you had an anxious night of it....  Go across and pay at the other counter, my dears.”  Then he called out loudly—­“One and seven, please.”

The little girls tripped importantly away.

“Yes, indeed,” Rachel agreed.  The tale of the illness, then, was spread over the town!  She was glad, and her self-consciousness somehow decreased.  She now fully understood the wisdom of Mrs. Maldon in refusing to let the police be informed of the disappearance of the money.  What a fever in the shops of Bursley—­even in the quiet shop of Ted Malkin—­if the full story got abroad!