But her meetings with Opinion were not over for the day, for turning again at last into the home Square, tired out by her three hours’ ramble, she met an old lady whom she and Gratian had known from babyhood—­a handsome dame, the widow of an official, who spent her days, which showed no symptom of declining, in admirable works.  Her daughter, the widow of an officer killed at the Marne, was with her, and the two greeted Noel with a shower of cordial questions:  So she was back from the country, and was she quite well again?  And working at her hospital?  And how was her dear father?  They had thought him looking very thin and worn.  But now Gratian was at home—­How dreadfully the war kept husbands and wives apart!  And whose was the dear little baby they had in the house?

“Mine,” said Noel, walking straight past them with her head up.  In every fibre of her being she could feel the hurt, startled, utterly bewildered looks of those firm friendly persons left there on the pavement behind her; could feel the way they would gather themselves together, and walk on, perhaps without a word, and then round the corner begin:  “What has come to Noel?  What did she mean?” And taking the little gold hoop out of her pocket, she flung it with all her might into the Square Garden.  The action saved her from a breakdown; and she went in calmly.  Lunch was long over, but her father had not gone out, for he met her in the hall and drew her into the dining-room.

“You must eat, my child,” he said.  And while she was swallowing down what he had caused to be kept back for her, he stood by the hearth in that favourite attitude of his, one foot on the fender, and one hand gripping the mantel-shelf.

“You’ve got your wish, Daddy,” she said dully:  “Everybody knows now.  I’ve told Mr. Lauder, and Monsieur, and the Dinnafords.”

She saw his fingers uncrisp, then grip the shelf again.  “I’m glad,” he said.

“Aunt Thirza gave me a ring to wear, but I’ve thrown it away.”

“My dearest child,” he began, but could not go on, for the quivering of his lips.

“I wanted to say once more, Daddy, that I’m fearfully sorry about you.  And I am ashamed of myself; I thought I wasn’t, but I am—­only, I think it was cruel, and I’m not penitent to God; and it’s no good trying to make me.”

Pierson turned and looked at her.  For a long time after, she could not get that look out of her memory.

Jimmy Fort had turned away from Noel feeling particularly wretched.  Ever since the day when Leila had told him of the girl’s misfortune he had been aware that his liaison had no decent foundation, save a sort of pity.  One day, in a queer access of compunction, he had made Leila an offer of marriage.  She had refused; and he had respected her the more, realising by the quiver in her voice and the look in her eyes that she refused him, not because she did not love him well enough, but because she was afraid of losing any of his affection.  She was a woman of great experience.