He held out his hand, and she too rose, shivering a little in her thin dress.

She was the first to hurry away.

He looked after her small figure, noted her nervous gait and the agitated movement of her hand as the streamers on her poor cape flapped and fluttered, the sport of the unfeeling wind.

CHAPTER VIII

A Painful Misunderstanding

And now, on early evenings and Saturday afternoons when the weather was fine, Miss Quincey was to be found in Primrose Hill Park.  Not that anybody ever came to look for Miss Quincey.  Nevertheless, whether she was walking up and down the paths or sitting on a bench, Miss Quincey had a certain expectant air, as if at any moment Dr. Cautley might come tearing round the corner with his coat-tails flying, or as if she might look up and find him sitting beside her and talking to her.  But he did not come.  There are some histories that never repeat themselves.

And he had never called since that day—­Miss Quincey remembered it well; it was Saturday the thirteenth of March.  April and May went by; she had not seen him now for more than two months; and she began to think there must be a reason for it.

At last she saw him; she saw him twice running.  Once in the park where they had sat together, and once in the forked road that leads past that part of St. Sidwell’s where Miss Cursiter and Miss Vivian lived in state.  Each time he was walking very fast as usual, and he looked at her, but he never raised his hat; she spoke, but he passed her without a word.  And yet he had recognised her; there could be no possible doubt of it.

Depend upon it there was a reason for that.  Miss Quincey was one of those innocent people who believe that every variety of human behaviour must have a reason (as if only two months ago she had not been favoured with the spectacle of an absolutely unreasonable young man).  To be sure it was not easy to find one for conduct so strange and unprecedented, and in any case Miss Quincey’s knowledge of masculine motives was but small.  Taken by itself it might have passed without any reason, as an oversight, a momentary lapse; but coupled with his complete abandonment of Camden Street North it looked ominous indeed.  Not that her faith in Bastian Cautley wavered for an instant.  Because Bastian Cautley was what he was, he could never be guilty of spontaneous discourtesy; on the other hand, she had seen that he could be fierce enough on provocation; therefore, she argued, he had some obscure ground of offence against her.