From her box, that in which were hidden away many heart-breaking mementoes of her life as an actress, she took out a sheet of notepaper and an envelope.  Without much thought, she wrote nearly three pages, folded the letter, addressed it with a name only ’Mr. Kirkwood.’  Sidney’s address she did not know; her father had mentioned Red Lion Street, that was all.  She did not even know whether he still worked at the old place, but in that way she must try to find him.  She cloaked herself, took her umbrella, and went out.

At a corner of St. John’s Square she soon found an urchin who would run an errand for her.  He was to take this note to a house that she indicated, and to ask if Mr. Kirkwood was working there.  She scarcely durst hope to see the messenger returning with empty hands, but he did so.  A terrible throbbing at her heart, she went home again.

In the evening, when her father returned, she surprised him by saying that she expected a visitor.

‘Do you want me to go out of the way?’ he asked, eager to submit to her in everything.

’No.  I’ve asked my friend to come to Mrs. Hollsnd’s.  I thought there would be no great harm.  I shall go down just before nine o’clock.’

‘Oh no, there’s no harm,’ conceded her father.  ’It’s only if the neighbours opposite got talkin’ to them when they come back.’

‘I can’t help it.  They won’t mind.  I can’t help it.’

John noticed her agitated repetition, the impatience with which she flung aside difficulties.

‘Clara—­it ain’t anything about work, my dear?’

’No, father.  I wouldn’t do anything without telling you; I’ve promised.’

‘Then I don’t care; it’s all right.’

She had begun to speak immediately on his entering the room, and so it happened that he had not kissed her as he always did at home-coming.  When she had sat down, he came with awkwardness and timidity and bent his face to hers.

‘What a hot cheek it is to-night, my little girl!’ he murmured.  ’I don’t like it; you’ve got a bit of fever hangin’ about you.’

She wished to be alone; the children must not come into the room until she had gone downstairs.  When her father had left her, she seated herself before the looking-glass, abhorrent as it was to her to look thus in her own face, and began dressing her hair with quite unusual attention.  This beauty at least remained to her; arranged as she had learned to do it for the stage, the dark abundance of her tresses crowned nobly the head which once held itself with such defiant grace.  She did not change her dress, which, though it had suffered from wear, was well-fitting and of better material than Farringdon Road Buildings were wont to see; a sober draping which became her tall elegance as she moved.  At a quarter to nine she arranged the veil upon her head so that she could throw her hat aside without disturbing it; then, taking the lamp in her hand, and the key of the Hollands’ door, she went forth.