It was the most unforeseen and amazing experience of her life, and at once she sought for some reason which could connect with his coming some more interesting person than mere Emily Fox-Seton.  Oh,—­the thought flashed upon her,—­he had come for some reason connected with Lady Agatha.  He made her sit down on the heather again, and he took a seat beside her.  He looked straight into her eyes.

“You have been crying,” he remarked.

There was no use denying it.  And what was there in the good gray-brown eye, gazing through the monocle, which so moved her by its suggestion of kindness and—­and some new feeling?

“Yes, I have,” she admitted.  “I don’t often—­but—­well, yes, I have.”

“What was it?”

It was the most extraordinary thump her heart gave at this moment.  She had never felt such an absolute thump.  It was perhaps because she was tired.  His voice had lowered itself.  No man had ever spoken to her before like that.  It made one feel as if he was not an exalted person at all; only a kind, kind one.  She must not presume upon his kindness and make much of her prosaic troubles.  She tried to smile in a proper casual way.

“Oh, it was a small thing, really,” was her effort at treating the matter lightly; “but it seems more important to me than it would to any one with—­with a family.  The people I live with—­who have been so kind to me—­are going away.”

“The Cupps?” he asked.

She turned quite round to look at him.

“How,” she faltered, “did you know about them?”

“Maria told me,” he answered, “I asked her.”

It seemed such a human sort of interest to have taken in her.  She could not understand.  And she had thought he scarcely realised her existence.  She said to herself that was so often the case—­people were so much kinder than one knew.

She felt the moisture welling in her eyes, and stared steadily at the heather, trying to wink it away.

“I am really glad,” she explained hastily.  “It is such good fortune for them.  Mrs. Cupp’s brother has offered them such a nice home.  They need never be anxious again.”

“But they will leave Mortimer Street—­and you will have to give up your room.”

“Yes.  I must find another.”  A big drop got the better of her, and flashed on its way down her cheek.  “I can find a room, perhaps, but—­I can’t find——­” She was obliged to clear her throat.

“That was why you cried?”

“Yes.”  After which she sat still.

“You don’t know where you will live?”

“No.”

She was looking so straight before her and trying so hard to behave discreetly that she did not see that he had drawn nearer to her.  But a moment later she realised it, because he took hold of her hand.  His own closed over it firmly.

“Will you,” he said—­“I came here, in fact, to ask you if you will come and live with me?”