So this was the end—­the end of the great romance which should have given her girlhood back to her, but which instead seemed to have shut her into a lonely and regretful middle-age.  All her shining pride in herself was gone—­she saw herself as one who has irrevocably lost all that makes life worth living ... pride and love.  She knew that Bertie did not love her—­in his heart he was glad that she was going—­all he was sorry for was the manner of it, which might bring him disgrace.  But he would soon get over that, and then he would be thankful he was free, and eventually he would marry some younger woman than herself ... and she?  Yes, she still loved him—­but it would not be for long.  She could feel her love for him slowly dying in her heart.  It was scarcely more than pity now—­pity for the little singing clerk whom she had caught and would have put in a cage if he had not fluttered so terribly in her hands.

When she arrived at Charing Cross a feeling of desolation was upon her.  A porter came to fetch her box, but Joanna—­the great Joanna Godden, who put terror into the markets of three towns—­shrank back into the taxi, loath to leave its comfortable shelter for the effort and racket of the station.  A dark, handsome, rather elderly man, was coming out of one of the archways.  Their eyes met and he at once turned his away, but Joanna leapt for him—­

“Sir Harry!  Sir Harry Trevor!  Don’t you know me?”

Only too well, but he had not exactly expected her to claim acquaintance.  He felt bewildered when Joanna pushed her way to him through the crowd and wrung his hand as if he was her only friend.

“Oh, Sir Harry, reckon I’m glad to see you!”

“I—­I—­” stuttered the baronet.

He looked rather flushed and sodden, and the dyeing of his hair was more obvious than it had been.

“Fancy meeting you!” gasped Joanna.

“Er—­how are you, Miss Godden?”

“Do you know when there’s a train to Rye?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t.  I’ve just been saying good-bye to my son Lawrence—­he’s off to Africa or somewhere, but I couldn’t wait till his train came in.  I’ve got to go over to St. Pancras and catch the 10.50 for the north.”

“Lawrence!”

Thank goodness, that had put her on another scent—­now she would let him go.

“Yes—­he’s in the station.  You’ll see him if you’re quick.”

Joanna turned away, and he saw that the tears were running down her face.  The woman had been drinking, that accounted for it all ... well, he wished Lawrence joy of her.  It would do him good to have a drunken woman falling on his neck on a public platform.