‘Is this a time or place for recalling such matters?’ she asked, with dignity.  ’You used to have a gentlemanly respect for me, and for yourself.  Don’t speak any more as you have spoken, and don’t come again.  I cannot think that this visit is serious, or was closely considered by you.’

’Considered:  well, I came to see you as an old and good friend—­not to mince matters, to visit a woman I loved.  Don’t be angry!  I could not help doing it, so many things brought you into my mind . . .  This evening I fell in with an acquaintance, and when I saw how happy he was with his wife and family welcoming him home, though with only one-tenth of my income and chances, and thought what might have been in my case, it fairly broke down my discretion, and off I came here.  Now I am here I feel that I am wrong to some extent.  But the feeling that I should like to see you, and talk of those we used to know in common, was very strong.’

‘Before that can be the case a little more time must pass,’ said Miss Savile quietly; ’a time long enough for me to regard with some calmness what at present I remember far too impatiently—­though it may be you almost forget it.  Indeed you must have forgotten it long before you acted as you did.’  Her voice grew stronger and more vivacious as she added:  ’But I am doing my best to forget it too, and I know I shall succeed from the progress I have made already!’

She had remained standing till now, when she turned and sat down, facing half away from him.

Barnet watched her moodily.  ‘Yes, it is only what I deserve,’ he said.  ’Ambition pricked me on—­no, it was not ambition, it was wrongheadedness!  Had I but reflected . . . ’ He broke out vehemently:  ’But always remember this, Lucy:  if you had written to me only one little line after that misunderstanding, I declare I should have come back to you.  That ruined me!’ he slowly walked as far as the little room would allow him to go, and remained with his eyes on the skirting.

’But, Mr. Barnet, how could I write to you?  There was no opening for my doing so.’

‘Then there ought to have been,’ said Barnet, turning.  ’That was my fault!’

’Well, I don’t know anything about that; but as there had been nothing said by me which required any explanation by letter, I did not send one.  Everything was so indefinite, and feeling your position to be so much wealthier than mine, I fancied I might have mistaken your meaning.  And when I heard of the other lady—­a woman of whose family even you might be proud—­I thought how foolish I had been, and said nothing.’

’Then I suppose it was destiny—­accident—­I don’t know what, that separated us, dear Lucy.  Anyhow you were the woman I ought to have made my wife—­and I let you slip, like the foolish man that I was!’

‘O, Mr. Barnet,’ she said, almost in tears, ’don’t revive the subject to me; I am the wrong one to console you—­think, sir,—­you should not be here—­it would be so bad for me if it were known!’