When one is as young as Ashurst, pity is not a violent emotion.  And, back in the Hallidays’ sitting-room, eating a ravenous tea, he felt much like a man recovered from fever.  Everything seemed new and clear; the tea, the buttered toast and jam tasted absurdly good; tobacco had never smelt so nice.  And walking up and down the empty room, he stopped here and there to touch or look.  He took up Stella’s work-basket, fingered the cotton reels and a gaily-coloured plait of sewing silks, smelt at the little bag filled with woodroffe she kept among them.  He sat down at the piano, playing tunes with one finger, thinking:  ’To-night she’ll play; I shall watch her while she’s playing; it does me good to watch her.’  He took up the book, which still lay where she had placed it beside him, and tried to read.  But Megan’s little, sad figure began to come back at once, and he got up and leaned in the window, listening to the thrushes in the Crescent gardens, gazing at the sea, dreamy and blue below the trees.  A servant came in and cleared the tea away, and he still stood, inhaling the evening air, trying not to think.  Then he saw the Hallidays coming through the gate of the Crescent, Stella a little in front of Phil and the children, with their baskets, and instinctively he drew back.  His heart, too sore and discomfited, shrank from this encounter, yet wanted its friendly solace—­bore a grudge against this influence, yet craved its cool innocence, and the pleasure of watching Stella’s face.  From against the wall behind the piano he saw her come in and stand looking a little blank as though disappointed; then she saw him and smiled, a swift, brilliant smile which warmed yet irritated Ashurst.

“You never came after us, Frank.”

“No; I found I couldn’t.”

“Look!  We picked such lovely late violets!” She held out a bunch.  Ashurst put his nose to them, and there stirred within him vague longings, chilled instantly by a vision of Megan’s anxious face lifted to the faces of the passers-by.

He said shortly:  “How jolly!” and turned away.  He went up to his room, and, avoiding the children, who were coming up the stairs, threw himself on his bed, and lay there with his arms crossed over his face.  Now that he felt the die really cast, and Megan given up, he hated himself, and almost hated the Hallidays and their atmosphere of healthy, happy English homes.

Why should they have chanced here, to drive away first love—­to show him that he was going to be no better than a common seducer?  What right had Stella, with her fair, shy beauty, to make him know for certain that he would never marry Megan; and, tarnishing it all, bring him such bitterness of regretful longing and such pity?  Megan would be back by now, worn out by her miserable seeking—­poor little thing!—­expecting, perhaps, to find him there when she reached home.  Ashurst bit at his sleeve, to stifle a groan of remorseful longing.