The evening came on which she and Andrew were to go to the hall, but Andrew had gone out early to look for some employment, and had not returned.  Miriam’s hatred rose again, and again assumed an outward garb of the purest virtue.  She sat for some time in rapid debate with herself as to what she dare do.  Even she recoiled a little from going to a music hall without her brother, but passion prevailed.  She did not simply determine to go knowing it to be wrong, but with great earnestness demonstrated to herself that she was right; and then, as a kind of sop to any lingering suspicions, left a note on the mantelpiece for Andrew, upbraiding him for delay, and directing him to follow.  No Andrew appeared.  She now began to feel how strange her position was.  She might easily before she started have conjectured that Andrew might fail, and might have pictured to herself how difficult and awkward it would be to sit there throughout the evening alone and return alone; but she did not possess the faculty of picturing uncertainties any distance ahead, although the present was generally so vivid.  She could never say to herself:  “Probably this arrangement now proposed will break down, and if it does; I shall stand in such and such a situation; what, in that situation, ought I to do?” She had, in fact, no strategical faculty—­certainly none when temptation was strong.  She dreaded turning out into the street with the rough crowd, and she wondered if Montgomery would come to her assistance.  The audience gradually departed; she was nearly the last, and she determined that she would walk round to the door by which she knew Montgomery usually left, and try to encounter him casually.  She paced up and down a few moments, and he met her.  He was much surprised, and she, with some excitement, explained to him that she had left home a little before Andrew, expecting him to overtake her, but that she had seen nothing of him.

“Of course you will let me accompany you to your lodgings?”

“Thank you; it is very kind of you.”

She took the arm he offered her.  She thought she detected he was a little unsteady, and after a word or two he became silent.

She was not particularly well acquainted with the district round the hall, but she soon perceived that they were not on the straight road for her house.

“Is this our nearest way?” she asked.

“No, I can’t say it is; but I thought you would not object to just a turn round.  It’s a lovely night—­a lovely night!”

Presently they came into a very shabby street, and he stopped.  The cold air had begun to upset him a little.

“These are my quarters,” he stammered.  “I’m rather tired, and I should think you must be tired too.  Just come in for a moment and have something, and then we will go on.”

“Oh no, thank you,” said Miriam, who was becoming alarmed.  “I must go back at once.”

“Won’t you come?  Do come; just a moment.”