the coldly logical apparatus of her mind churning out these irrational conclusions as it would have been for her to find her mother babbling in drunkenness; and this feeling that for Yaverland to know of her misery would be a culminating humiliation that she could not face seemed disgustingly mad.  So she threw herself into a black drowse of misery unfeatured by specific ideas, until she began to think smilingly of the way his eyebrows grew; they were very thick and dark and perfectly level save for a piratical twist in the middle.  But she became conscious that he was standing over her, and her heart almost stopped.  He said, “I think we’re just coming into Edinburgh.”  There was no reason why she should feel chilled and desolate when he said that.  She must be going out of her mind.

And he, since she had shown by the simplicity of her movements that she was not afraid of him, was quite happy.

He could see the picture of himself sitting beside the sleeping child as if it were printed in three colours on glossy paper.  But he was a little troubled lest she had walked too far, and as they went up the stone steps from the station to Princes Street he bent over her and asked in a tone of tenderness that he enjoyed using, “Are you tired?”

“Oh, very tired,” said Ellen, drooping her head, and aping a fatigue greater than anything she had ever felt in all her young life.

CHAPTER IV

I

Mr. Philip was crossing Princes Street when he saw them standing in the white circle under the electric standard by the station steps.  The strong light fell on them like a criticism, and it seemed to him brazen the way they stood there being so handsome that the passers-by turned about to stare at them.  Doubtless, since folks were such fools, they were whispering that the two made a fine pair.  Surely it was the vilest indecency that there, under his very eyes, that great hulking chap from Rio bent his head and spoke to Ellen, and she answered him?

“She’s standing there making herself as conspicuous as if she were a street girl!” he screamed to himself, and other shouts filled his ears, and he became aware that a cursing driver had pulled up his horse a foot away and that the loafers at the kerb were lifting jeering cries.  He charged it one more offence to Ellen’s account that she had caused him to make a fool of himself, and vowed he would never think of her again, and ran among the people to see where she had gone.  Yaverland was leading her very quickly along towards the North Bridge, and she was now nothing but a dark shape that might, he thought with a glee that he did not understand, have belonged to some ageing woman with a bony body and a sallow face.  But then he saw against the lit pavement her narrow feet treading that gait that was like a grave, slow dance, and he realised with agony that it was no use lying to himself and pretending that this was anybody but Ellen—­Ellen, who was far different from every other woman in the world and more desirable.  She slowly turned, as if her spirit had felt this rage at the fact of her running at her heels, and wished to have it out with him.  He gripped his stick and raised a hand to hide his working mouth, and waited for the moment when she would see his face, but it did not come.