He remembered the pleasant hours they had spent together in the cosy sitting-room in Vincent Square, their visits to galleries and to the play, and the charming evenings of intimate conversation.  He recollected her solicitude for his welfare and her interest in all that concerned him.  She had loved him with a love that was kind and lasting, there was more than sensuality in it, it was almost maternal; he had always known that it was a precious thing for which with all his soul he should thank the gods.  He made up his mind to throw himself on her mercy.  She must have suffered horribly, but he felt she had the greatness of heart to forgive him:  she was incapable of malice.  Should he write to her?  No.  He would break in on her suddenly and cast himself at her feet—­he knew that when the time came he would feel too shy to perform such a dramatic gesture, but that was how he liked to think of it—­and tell her that if she would take him back she might rely on him for ever.  He was cured of the hateful disease from which he had suffered, he knew her worth, and now she might trust him.  His imagination leaped forward to the future.  He pictured himself rowing with her on the river on Sundays; he would take her to Greenwich, he had never forgotten that delightful excursion with Hayward, and the beauty of the Port of London remained a permanent treasure in his recollection; and on the warm summer afternoons they would sit in the Park together and talk:  he laughed to himself as he remembered her gay chatter, which poured out like a brook bubbling over little stones, amusing, flippant, and full of character.  The agony he had suffered would pass from his mind like a bad dream.

But when next day, about tea-time, an hour at which he was pretty certain to find Norah at home, he knocked at her door his courage suddenly failed him.  Was it possible for her to forgive him?  It would be abominable of him to force himself on her presence.  The door was opened by a maid new since he had been in the habit of calling every day, and he inquired if Mrs. Nesbit was in.

“Will you ask her if she could see Mr. Carey?” he said.  “I’ll wait here.”

The maid ran upstairs and in a moment clattered down again.

“Will you step up, please, sir.  Second floor front.”

“I know,” said Philip, with a slight smile.

He went with a fluttering heart.  He knocked at the door.

“Come in,” said the well-known, cheerful voice.

It seemed to say come in to a new life of peace and happiness.  When he entered Norah stepped forward to greet him.  She shook hands with him as if they had parted the day before.  A man stood up.

“Mr. Carey—­Mr. Kingsford.”

Philip, bitterly disappointed at not finding her alone, sat down and took stock of the stranger.  He had never heard her mention his name, but he seemed to Philip to occupy his chair as though he were very much at home.  He was a man of forty, clean-shaven, with long fair hair very neatly plastered down, and the reddish skin and pale, tired eyes which fair men get when their youth is passed.  He had a large nose, a large mouth; the bones of his face were prominent, and he was heavily made; he was a man of more than average height, and broad-shouldered.