Her own future was more hopeful than theirs had ever been.  She knew herself good-looking.  Men had followed her in the street and tried to make her acquaintance.  Some of the girls with whom she lived regarded her enviously, spitefully.  But had she really the least chance of marrying a man whom she could respect—­not to say love?

One-and-twenty a week hence.  At Weston she had kept tolerable health, but certainly her constitution was not strong, and the slavery of Walworth Road threatened her with premature decay.  Her sisters counselled wisely.  Coming to London was a mistake.  She would have had better chances at Weston, notwithstanding the extreme discretion with which she was obliged to conduct herself.

While she mused thus, a profound discouragement settling on her sweet face, some one took a seat by her—­on the same bench, that is to say.  Glancing aside, she saw that it was an oldish man, with grizzled whiskers and rather a stern visage.  Monica sighed.

Was it possible that he had heard her?  He looked this way, and with curiosity.  Ashamed of herself, she kept her eyes averted for a long time.  Presently, following the movement of a boat, her face turned unconsciously towards the silent companion; again he was looking at her, and he spoke.  The gravity of his appearance and manner, the good-natured commonplace that fell from his lips, could not alarm her; a dialogue began, and went on for about half an hour.

How old might he be?  After all, he was probably not fifty—­ perchance not much more than forty.  His utterance fell short of perfect refinement, but seemed that of an educated man.  And certainly his clothes were such as a gentleman wears.  He had thin, hairy hands, unmarked by any effect of labour; the nails could not have been better cared for.  Was it a bad sign that he carried neither gloves nor walking-stick?

His talk aimed at nothing but sober friendliness; it was perfectly inoffensive—­indeed, respectful.  Now and then—­not too often—­ he fixed his eyes upon her for an instant.  After the introductory phrases, he mentioned that he had had a long drive, alone; his horse was baiting in preparation for the journey back to London.  He often took such drives in the summer, though generally on a weekday; the magnificent sky had tempted him out this morning.  He lived at Herne Hill.

At length he ventured a question.  Monica affected no reluctance to tell him that she was in a house of business, that she had relatives in London, that only by chance she found herself alone to-day.

‘I should be sorry if I never saw you again.’

These words he uttered with embarrassment, his eyes on the ground.  Monica could only keep silence.  Half an hour ago she would not have thought it possible for any remark of this man’s seriously to occupy her mind, yet now she waited for the next sentence in discomposure which was quite free from resentment.