Two middle-aged women, seated at a small table, taking their tea after strenuous shopping at the sales, watched him and discussed him frankly.

“Evidently here to meet someone!”

“And she hasn’t come!”

“You can see how disappointed he looks, poor fellow.”

“Too bad of her!”

“My dear, what some men can see in some women...”

“And a girl who would keep a man like that waiting deserves to lose him.”

“I hope she does.  See, he’s going now.  I hope she comes later and is disappointed.”

“Oh no, I think that must be she.  What a handsome girl, but how cold and proud looking!”

She had come, even as he was giving up in despair.  As he turned to leave, she came, and they met face to face.

The two amiable busybodies sipped their tea and watched.

“My dear, she didn’t even offer him her hand—­such a cold and stately bow.  They can’t be lovers, after all!”

“I don’t think I ever saw a more lovely girl!”

“But icily cold.  That pink chiffon I bought at Robinson’s will make up into a charming evening dress for Irene, don’t you think?”

“I am afraid I am late,” Joan said, and her voice was clear and cold, expressionless as a voice could be.

“Surely I deserve that at least, after the unforgivable delay in answering your letter.”

“Yes,” she said, “you—­you were a long time answering.”  And suddenly she realised what that delay had meant.

Yesterday, if his answer had come, perhaps she would not have done as she had done.  But it was done now, past recall.

“I was away.  I found Hurst Dormer irksome and lonely.  Lady Linden came over; she invited me to stay at Cornbridge,” he explained.  “So I went, and no letters were forwarded.  Yours came within a few hours of my leaving.  I hope you understand that if I had had it—­”

“You would have answered it before, Mr. Alston?  Yes, I am glad to feel the neglect was not intentional.”

“Intentional!”

“I—­I thought, judging from the manner in which we last parted, and what you then said to me, that you—­you preferred not to—­see me again.”

“I was hurt then, hurt and bitter.  I had no right to say what I said.  I ask you to accept my apologies, Joan.”

She started a little at the sound of her name, but did not look at him.

“Perhaps you were right.  I have thought it over since.  Yes, I think I acted meanly; it was a thing a woman would do.  That is where a woman fails—­in small things—­ideas, mean ideas come to her mind, just like that one.  A man would not think such things.  Yes, I am ashamed by the smallness of it.  You said ‘ungenerous.’  I think a better expression would have been ‘mean-spirited.’”

“Joan!”

“But we need not discuss that.  We owe one another apologies.  Shall we take it that they are offered and accepted?”