Her moods alternated with distracting rapidity.  A hundred times she had resolved that Bevis could be nothing more to her, and again had thought of him with impulses of yearning, trying to persuade herself that he had acted well and wisely.  A hundred times she determined to carry out her idea of yesterday—­to quit her husband and resist all his efforts to recall her—­and again had all but resigned herself to live with him, accepting degradation as so many wives perforce did.  Her mind was in confusion, and physically she felt far from well.  A heaviness weighed upon her limbs, making it hardship to walk however short a distance.

Arrived at Clapham Junction, she began to search wearily, indifferently, for the kind of shop that might answer her purpose.  The receiving of letters which, for one reason or another, must be dispatched to a secret address, is a very ordinary complaisance on the part of small London stationers; hundreds of such letters are sent and called for every week within the metropolitan postal area.  It did not take Monica long to find an obliging shopkeeper; the first to whom she applied—­a decent woman behind a counter which displayed newspapers, tobacco, and fancy articles—­willingly accepted the commission.

She came out of the shop with flushed cheeks.  Another step in shameful descent—­yet it had the result of strengthening once more her emotions favourable to Bevis.  On his account she had braved this ignominy, and it drew her towards him, instead of producing the effect which would have seemed more natural.  Perhaps the reason was that she felt herself more hopelessly an outcast from the world of honourable women, and therefore longed in her desolation for the support of a man’s love.  Did he not love her?  It was her fault if she expected him to act with a boldness that did not lie in his nature.  Perhaps his discretion, which she had so bitterly condemned as weakness, meant a wise regard for her interests as well as his own.  The public scandal of divorce was a hideous thing.  If it damaged his prospects and sundered him from his relatives, how could she hope that his love of her, the cause of it all, would long endure?

The need of love overcame her.  She would submit to any conditions rather than lose this lover whose kisses were upon her lips, and whose arms had held her so passionately.  She was too young to accept a life of resignation, too ardent.  Why had she left him in despondency, in doubt whether he would ever again see her?

* * * * * * * * * *

She turned back on her way to Virginia’s lodgings, re-entered the station, and journeyed townwards.  It was an odd incident, by Monica unperceived, that when she was taking her ticket there stood close by her a man, seemingly a mechanic, who had also stood within hearing when she booked at Herne Hill.  This same man, though he had not travelled in the compartment with her, followed her when she alighted at Bayswater.  She did not once observe him.