It was his own will, therefore, that made him walk steadily and indifferently towards her.  His head bent as though he did not see her.  It was really the wind in her hair now.  It caught the ends of her long, loose coat and carried them out behind her.  Her slender feet moved uncertainly in the circle of lamp-light.  Any moment they might break into one of the quaint little dances.  Or the wind might carry her off altogether in a mysterious gust down the street and out of sight.  It was like his vision of her that evening in Acacia Grove.  It made him feel more and more unreal and frightened of himself.

He was almost past her when he spoke.

“Robert Stonehouse,” she said rather authoritatively, as though she expected him to run away; “Robert Stonehouse——­”

He stopped short with his heart beating in his throat.  But he did not take the hand that she held out to him.  He could only stare at her, frowning in his distress, and she asked:  “You do know who I am, don’t you?”

“Yes.  Francey—­Francey Wilmot—­Miss Wilmot.”  He forced himself to stop stammering, and added stiffly:  “I did not know you had recognized me.”

“Didn’t you?  I thought——­ Well, I did recognize you anyhow.  I was so astonished at first that I thought it was a sort of materialization.  But you were absurdly the same.  And then when you poured the cider out on to poor Gerty’s skirt——­”

“Was that one of my childish customs?” he asked.  “I’d forgotten.”

“I nearly stood up and shook hands.”

“I’m glad you didn’t.”

“I thought you’d feel like that.  I remembered that you had been rather a touchy little boy——­”

“I was thinking of your friends.  Howard, for instance.”

“Why, do you know Howard?”

“By sight.”

“If you’ve never even spoken to him you can’t, of course, tell what he would have felt.  Do you mind walking home with me?  I don’t live far from here, and we can talk better.”

He held his ground, obstinate and defiant.  It was unjust that anyone, knowing himself to be brilliantly clever, should yet be made an oaf by an incident so trivial.

“I’m sorry.  I don’t see what we can have to talk about.  I’m not keen on childish recollections.  I haven’t time for them.  And it’s fairly obvious we don’t move in the same set and are not likely to meet again.”  He burst out rudely.  “I suppose you were just curious——­”

“Of course.  You’d be curious if you found me selling flowers in Piccadilly.  You’d come up and say:  ’allo!  Francey, what have you been doing with yourself?’ And you’d have tried to give me a leg up, if it only ran to buying a gardenia for old times’ sake.”

He suspected her of poking fun at him.  And yet there was that subtle underlying seriousness about her and a frank, disarming kindliness.

“You think I’m down on my luck,” he retorted, “and so anybody has a right to butt in.”