“Supposing you knew it would end some day, not necessarily in marrying the manager, would you mind going on with it?”

She looked away from him, and tears formed under her eyelashes, the vague light tears that never fall.  “There’s no use my talking of flinging it up.  I’m fixed there for good.”

“Who knows?” said Rickman; and if Flossie’s eyes had been candid they would have said, “You ought to know, if anybody does.”  Whatever they said, it made him shudder, with fear, with shame, but no, not with hatred.  “Poor Flossie,” he said gently; and there was a pause during which Flossie looked more demure than ever after her little outburst.  She had seen the look in his eyes that foreboded flight.

He rose abruptly.  “Do you know, I’m awfully sorry, but I’ve got an appointment at half past five to meet a fellow in Fleet Street.”

The fellow was Maddox, but the appointment, he had made it that very minute, which was the twenty-fifth minute past five.

They went their ways; he to Fleet Street, and she home.  Maddox did not turn up to the appointment and Rickman had to keep it with himself.  As the result of the interview he determined to try the effect of a little timely absence.  He did not attempt to conceal from himself that he was really most Horribly afraid; his state of mind or rather body (for the disorder was purely physical) was such that he positively dared not remain in the same house with Flossie another day.  What he needed was change of air and scene.  He approached Mrs. Downey with a shame-faced air, and a tale of how he was seedy and thought if he could get away for a week it would set him up.  It seemed to him that Mrs. Downey’s manner conveyed the most perfect comprehension of his condition.  He did not care; he was brought so low that he could almost have confided in Mrs. Downey.  “Mark my words,” said the wise woman to the drawing-room.  “He’ll be back again before the week’s up.”  And as usual, little Flossie marked them.

He walked out to Hampstead that very evening and engaged rooms there by the week, on the understanding that he might require them for a month or more.  He did not certainly know how long the cure would take.

Hampstead is a charming and salubrious suburb, and Jewdwine was really very decent to him while he was there, but in four days he had had more of the cure than he wanted.  Or was it that he didn’t want to be cured?  Anyway a week was enough to prove that the flight to Hampstead was a mistake.  He had now an opportunity of observing Miss Flossie from a judicious distance, with the result that her image was seen through a tender wash of atmosphere at the precise moment when it acquired relief.  He began to miss her morning greetings, the soft touch of her hand when they said good-night, and the voice that seemed to be always saying, “How orf’ly good of you,” “Thanks orf’ly, Mr. Rickman, I’ve had a lovely day.”  He hadn’t given her many lovely days lately, poor little girl.