The had luncheon at one o’clock, and at a quarter to two Monica started by train for Clapham Junction.  It was her purpose to have a short conversation with Virginia, who knew of the trip to Clevedon, and to speak as though she were quite reconciled to the thought of removal; after that, she would pursue her journey so as to reach Bayswater by four o’clock.  But Virginia was not at home.  Mrs. Conisbee said she had gone out at eleven in the morning, and with the intention of returning by teatime.  After a brief hesitation Monica requested the landlady to deliver a message.

’Please ask her not to come to Herne Hill until she hears from me, as I am not likely to be at home for a day or two.’

This left more time at her disposal than she knew how to employ.  She returned to the railway station, and travelled on to Victoria; there, in the corner of a waiting-room, she sat, feverishly impatient, until her watch told her that she might take the next train westward.

A possible danger was before her—­though perhaps she need not trouble herself with the thought of such dangers.  What if Mr. Barfoot happened to encounter her as she ascended the stairs?  But most likely he had no idea that her female friends, who dwelt on the floor above him, were gone away.  Did it matter what he might think?  In a day or two—­

She came to the street, approached the block of flats, involuntarily casting anxious glances about her.  And when she was within twenty yards of the door, it opened, and forth came Barfoot.  Her first sensation was unreasoning terror; her next, thankfulness that she had not been a few minutes sooner, when the very meeting she had feared, within the building itself, would have come to pass.  He walked this way; he saw her; and the pleasantest smile of recognition lit up his face.

’Mrs. Widdowson!  Not a minute ago you were in my thoughts.  I wished I could see you.’

‘I am going—­to make a call in this neighbourhood—­’

She could not command herself.  The shock had left her trembling, and the necessity of feigning calmness was a new trial of her nerves.  Barfoot, she felt certain, was reading her face like a printed page; he saw guilt there; his quickly-averted eyes, his peculiar smile, seemed to express the facile tolerance of a man of the world.

‘Allow me to accompany you to the end of the street.’

His words buzzed in her ears.  She walked on without conscious effort, like an automaton obedient to a touch.

‘You know that Miss Nunn has gone down into Cumberland?’ Barfoot was saying, his look bent upon her.

‘Yes.  I know.’

She tried to glance at him with a smile.

‘To-morrow,’ he pursued, ‘I am going there myself.’

‘To Cumberland?’

‘I shall see her, I hope.  Perhaps she will only be angry with me.’

‘Perhaps.  But perhaps not.’

Her confusion would not be overcome.  She felt a burning in her ears, on her neck.  It was an agony of shame.  The words she spoke sounded imbecile mutterings, which must confirm Barfoot in his worst opinion of her.