Pierson looked at the girl, who seemed, if anything, less interested than ever.  This impenetrability and something mulish in her attitude annoyed him.  “I can’t think,” he said, “how you could so have forgotten yourself.  It’s truly grievous.”

Mrs. Mitchett murmured:  “Yes, sir; the girls gets it into their heads that there’s going to be no young men for them.”

“That’s right,” said the girl sullenly.

Pierson’s lips grew tighter.  “Well, what can I do for you, Mrs. Mitchett?” he said.  “Does your daughter come to church?”

Mrs. Mitchett shook her head mournfully.  “Never since she had her byke.”

Pierson rose from his chair.  The old story!  Control and discipline undermined, and these bitter apples the result!

“Well,” he said, “if you need our creche, you have only to come to me,” and he turned to the girl.  “And you—­won’t you let this dreadful experience move your heart?  My dear girl, we must all master ourselves, our passions, and our foolish wilfulness, especially in these times when our country needs us strong, and self-disciplined, not thinking of ourselves.  I’m sure you’re a good girl at heart.”

The girl’s dark eyes, unmoved from his face, roused in him a spasm of nervous irritation.  “Your soul is in great danger, and you’re very unhappy, I can see.  Turn to God for help, and in His mercy everything will be made so different for you—­so very different!  Come!”

The girl said with a sort of surprising quietness:  “I don’t want the baby!”

The remark staggered him, almost as if she had uttered a hideous oath.

“’Ilda was in munitions,” said her mother in an explanatory voice:  “earnin’ a matter of four pound a week.  Oh! dear, it is a waste an’ all!” A queer, rather terrible little smile curled Pierson’s lips.

“A judgment!” he said.  “Good evening, Mrs. Mitchett.  Good evening, Hilda.  If you want me when the time comes, send for me.”

They stood up; he shook hands with them; and was suddenly aware that the door was open, and Noel standing there.  He had heard no sound; and how long she had been there he could not tell.  There was a singular fixity in her face and attitude.  She was staring at the girl, who, as she passed, lifted her face, so that the dark eyes and the grey eyes met.  The door was shut, and Noel stood there alone with him.

“Aren’t you early, my child?” said Pierson.  “You came in very quietly.”

“Yes; I heard.”

A slight shock went through him at the tone of her voice; her face had that possessed look which he always dreaded.  “What did you hear?” he said.

“I heard you say:  ‘A judgment!’ You’ll say the same to me, won’t you?  Only, I do want my baby.”

She was standing with her back to the door, over which a dark curtain hung; her face looked young and small against its stuff, her eyes very large.  With one hand she plucked at her blouse, just over her heart.