At that moment he was aware that she had caught sight of him, and that she was startled.  She had not known of his return to England, and she was suddenly overwhelmed by confusion.  The words of the letter he had written her when she had thrown him over rushed through her brain now, and hurt her as much as they did the first day they had been received.  She became a little pale, and turned as though to find some other egress from the shop.  There being none, there was but one course, and that was to go out as though she had not seen him.  He had not even been moved at all at seeing her; but with her it was different.  She was disturbed—­in her vanity?  In her peace?  In her pride?  In her senses?  In her heart?  In any, or each, or all?  But she was disturbed:  her equilibrium was shaken.  He had scorched her soul by that letter to her, so gently cold, so incisive, so subtly cruel, so deadly in its irony, so final—­so final.

She was ashamed, and no one else in the world but Ian Stafford could so have shamed her.  Power had been given to her, the power of great riches—­the three millions had been really four—­and everything and everybody, almost, was deferential towards her.  Had it brought her happiness, or content, or joy?  It had brought her excitement—­much of that—­and elation, and opportunity to do a thousand things, and to fatigue herself in a thousand ways; but had it brought happiness?

If it had, the face of this man who was once so much to her, and whom she had flung into outer darkness, was sufficient to cast a cloud over it.  She felt herself grow suddenly weak, but she determined to go out of the place without appearing to see him.

He was conscious of it all, saw it out of a corner of his eye, and as she started forward, he turned, deliberately walked towards her, and, with a cheerful smile, held out his hand.

“Now, what good fortune!” he said, spiritedly.  “Life plays no tricks, practices no deception this time.  In a book she’d have made us meet on a grand staircase or at a court ball.”

As he said this, he shook her hand warmly, and again and again, as would be fitting with old friends.  He had determined to be master of the situation, and to turn the moment to the credit of his account—­not hers; and it was easy to do it, for love was dead, and the memory of love atrophied.

Colour came back to her face.  Confusion was dispelled, a quick and grateful animation took possession of her, to be replaced an instant after by the disconcerting reflection that there was in his face or manner not the faintest sign of emotion or embarrassment.  From his attitude they might have been good friends who had not met for some time; nothing more.

“Yes, what a place to meet!” she said.  “It really ought to have been at a green-grocer’s, and the apotheosis of the commonplace would have been celebrated.  But when did you return?  How long do you remain in England?”