And then in one swift moment it had come.  She had found her hands caught fiercely, and her eyes imprisoned by his; and then all was over, and she had given him an answer in a word.

It had not been easy even after that.  Cecily had questioned her more than once.  Mrs. More had said a few indiscreet things that had been hard to bear; her own aunt had received the news in silence.

But that was over now.  The necessary consent on both sides had been given; and here she was once more walking up the road to Westminster with Ralph’s image before her eyes, and Ralph himself a hundred yards away.

* * * * *

She turned the last corner from the alley, passed up the little street, and turned again across the little cobbled yard that lay before the house.

Mr. Morris was at the door as she came up, and he now stood aside.  He seemed doubtful.

“Mr. Torridon has gentlemen with him, madam.”

“Then I will wait,” said Beatrice serenely, and made a motion to come in.  The servant still half-hesitating opened the door wider; and Beatrice and her maid went through into the little parlour on the right.

As she passed in she heard voices from the other door.  Mr. Morris’s footsteps went down the passage.

She had not very long to wait.  There was the sound of a carriage driving up to the door presently, and her maid who sat in view of the window glanced out.  Her face grew solemn.

“It is Master Cromwell’s carriage,” she said.

Beatrice was conscious of a vague discomfort; Master Cromwell, in spite of her efforts, was the shadowed side of Ralph’s life.

“Is he coming in?” she said.

The maid peeped again.

“No, madam.”

The door of the room they were in was not quite shut, and there was still a faint murmur of voices from across the hall; but almost immediately there was the sound of a lifted latch, and then Ralph’s voice clear and distinct.

“I will see to it, my lord.”

Beatrice stood up, feeling a little uneasy.  She fancied that perhaps she ought not to be here; she remembered now the servant’s slight air of unwillingness to let her in.  There was a footfall in the hall, and the sound of talking; and as Mr. Morris’s hasty step came up the passage, the door was pushed abruptly open, and Ralph was looking into the room, with one or two others beyond him.

“I did not know,” he began, and flushed a little, smiling and making as if to close the door.  But Cromwell’s face, with its long upper lip and close-set grey eyes, appeared over his shoulder, and Ralph turned round, almost deprecatingly.

“I beg your pardon, sir; this is Mistress Atherton, and her woman.”

Cromwell came forward into the room, with a kind of keen smile, in his rich dress and chain.

“Mistress Beatrice Atherton?” he said with a questioning deference; and Ralph introduced them to one another.  Beatrice was conscious of a good deal of awkwardness.  It was uncomfortable to be caught here, as if she had come to spy out something.  She felt herself flushing as she explained that she had had no idea who was there.