It never led her actually into a definite discontent with her own conditions of life, irksome, wearying, exhausting though she found them to be.  But subconsciously within her was the feeling that she was not really meant to be denied the joy of luxuries.  That instinct showed itself in many little ways.  She was sometimes extravagant—­bought a silk petticoat when a cotton one would have done just as well, but, oh heavens! it was cheap!  You would scarcely have thought it possible to buy silk petticoats at the price.  And no doubt the appearance of the silk was only superficial.  But it gave her a great deal of pleasure.  When any lady stepped down from her carriage to go into one of those West End shops, Sally always noticed the petticoat that she wore.  Women will—­men too, perhaps.

But on this dismal evening, when whenever she lifted her head the fine rain sprayed upon her face, there was no pleasure to be found in watching the people in the streets below.  Carriages were huddled up in line upon the stands and the coachmen shivered miserably on their seats, the rain dripping in steady drops from the brims of their hats into the laps of their mackintoshes.  So she kept her head down, and when she heard footsteps mounting the stairway, approaching her, she held out the three coppers for her fare without looking up.  When her mind, anticipating the answering ring of the conductor’s ticket-puncher, realized the mistake, she raised her head, then twisted back, electrically, as though some current had been passed through her body.  Seated on the bench at the other side of the passage-way, was the man whom she had found in King Street outside the premises of Bonsfield & Co.

Her first thought was to get off the ’bus.  She made a preparatory movement, leaning forward with her hand upon the back of the seat in front of her.  Possibly the man saw it and had no desire to be foiled a second time.  Whatever may have been his purpose, he moved nearer to her and held out the umbrella with which he was sheltering himself.

“You’d better let me lend you an umbrella—­hadn’t you?” he said.

There is a quality of voice that commands.  It neither considers nor admits of refusal.  He had it.  Women of strong personality it irritates; women with no personality it affrights; but the women who are women obey—­with reluctance probably, struggling against it, but in the end they obey.  There is, again, a quality of voice that hall-marks the man of birth.  Long years of careful preservation of the breed have refined it down.  It may cloak a mind that is vicious to a thought; but there is a ring in it—­a ring of true metal, well tried in the furnace.  He had that also.  From him, dressed none too carefully, it sounded almost misplaced and therefore was the more noticeable.  The effect of it upon her was obvious.  Instead of taking his suggestion as an insult, which undoubtedly she would have done had the offer been made in any other type of voice, Sally checked the offended toss of the head, restrained the contemptuous flash of eye, and merely said, “No, thank you.”  She said it coldly.  There was no warmth of encouragement, either in her tone of voice or the unrecognizing eye which she turned upon him without trace of sympathy.