On the following day, after their early dinner, Monica unexpectedly declared that she must go out.

‘Come with me.  We’ll go into the town.’

‘But you refused to go out this morning when it was fine,’ complained Virginia.  ‘And now you can see it will rain.’

‘Then I shall go alone.’

The sister at once started up.

‘No, no; I’m quite ready.  Where do you wish—­’

’Anywhere out of this dead place.  We’ll go by train, and walk from Victoria—­anywhere.  To the Abbey, if you like.’

’You must be very careful not to catch cold.  After all this time that you haven’t left the house—­’

Monica cut short the admonition and dressed herself with feverish impatience.  As they set forth, drops of rain had begun to fall, but Monica would not hear of waiting.  The journey by train made her nervous, but affected her spirits favourably.  At Victoria it rained so heavily that they could not go out into the street.

’It doesn’t matter.  There’s plenty to see here.  Let us walk about and look at things.  We’ll buy something at the bookstall to take back.’

As they turned again towards the platform, Monica was confronted by a face which she at once recognized, though it had changed noticeably in the eighteen months since she last saw it.  The person was Miss Eade, her old acquaintance at the shop.  But the girl no longer dressed as in those days; cheap finery of the ‘loudest’ description arrayed her form, and it needed little scrutiny to perceive that her thin cheeks were artificially reddened.  The surprise of the meeting was not Monica’s only reason for evincing embarrassment.  Seeing that Miss Eade was uncertain whether to make a sign of acquaintance, she felt it would be wiser to go by.  But this was not permitted.  As they were passing each other the girl bent her head and whispered—­

‘I want to speak to you—­just a minute.’

Virginia perceived the communication, and looked in surprise at her sister.

‘It’s one of the girls from Walworth Road,’ said Monica.  ’Just walk on; I’ll meet you at the bookstall.’

‘But, my dear, she doesn’t look respectable—­’

‘Go on; I won’t be a minute.’

Monica motioned to Miss Eade, who followed her towards a more retired spot.

‘You have left the shop?’

’Left—­I should think so.  Nearly a year ago.  I told you I shouldn’t stand it much longer.  Are you married?’

‘Yes.’

Monica did not understand why the girl should eye her so suspiciously.

‘You are?’ said Miss Eade.  ‘Nobody that I know, I suppose?’

‘Quite a stranger to you.’

The other made an unpleasant click with her tongue, and looked vaguely about her.  Then she remarked inconsequently that she was waiting the arrival of her brother by train.

’He’s a traveller for a West-end shop; makes five hundred a year.  I keep house for him, because of course he’s a widower.’