she began by exacting from the girl as much labour as could possibly be included in their agreement.  The hours were insufferably long; by nine o’clock each evening Clara was so outworn that with difficulty she remained standing, yet not until midnight was she released.  The unchanging odours of the place sickened her, made her head ache, and robbed her of all appetite.  Many of the duties were menial, and to perform them fevered her with indignation.  Then the mere waiting upon such men as formed the majority of the customers, vulgarly familiar, when not insolent, in their speech to her, was hateful beyond anything she had conceived.  Had there been no one to face but her father, she would have returned home and resumed her old occupation at the end of the first fortnight, so extreme was her suffering in mind and body; but rather than give Sidney Kirkwood such a triumph, she would work on, and breathe no word of what she underwent.  Even in her anger against him, the knowledge of his forgiving disposition, of the sincerity of his love, was an unavowed support.  She knew he could not utterly desert her; when some day he sought a reconciliation, the renewal of conflict between his pride and her own would, she felt, supply her with new courage.

Early one Saturday afternoon she was standing by the windows, partly from heavy idleness of thought, partly on the chance that Kirkwood might go by, when a young, well-dressed man, who happened to be passing at a slow walk, turned his head and looked at her.  He went on, but in a few moments Clara, who had moved back into the shop, saw him enter and come forwards.  He took a seat at the counter and ordered a luncheon.  Clara waited upon him with her customary cold reserve, and he made no remark until she returned him change out of the coin he offered.

Then he said with an apologetic smile: 

’We are old acquaintances, Miss Hewett, but I’m afraid you’ve forgotten me.’

Clara regarded him in astonishment.  His age seemed to be something short of thirty; he had a long, grave, intelligent face, smiled enigmatically, spoke in a rather slow voice.  His silk hat, sober necktie drawn through a gold ring, and dark morning-coat, made it probable that he was ‘in the City.’

‘We used to know each other very well about five years ago,’ he pursued, pocketing his change carelessly.  ’Don’t you remember a Mr. Scawthorne, who used to be a lodger with some friends of yours called Rudd?’

On the instant memory revived in Clara.  In her schooldays she often spent a Sunday afternoon with Grace Rudd, and this Mr. Scawthorne was generally at the tea-table.  Mr. and Mrs. Rudd made much of him, said that he held a most important post in a lawyer’s office, doubtless had private designs concerning him and their daughter.  Thus aided, she even recognised his features.

‘And you knew me again after all this time?’

‘Yours isn’t an easy face to forget,’ replied Mr. Scawthorne, with the subdued polite smile which naturally accompanied his tone of unemotional intimacy.  ’To tell you the whole truth, however, I happened to hear news of you a few days ago.  I met Grace Rudd; she told me you were here.  Some old friend had told her’