’We meet in this casual way, and talk, and then say good-bye.  Why mayn’t I tell you that you interest me very much, and that I am afraid to trust only to chance for another meeting?  If you were a man’—­he smiled—­’I should give you my card, and ask you to my house.  The card I may at all events offer.’

Whilst speaking, he drew out a little case, and laid a visiting-card on the bench within Monica’s reach.  Murmuring her ‘thank you,’ she took the bit of pasteboard, but did not look at it.

‘You are on my side of the river,’ he continued, still with scrupulous modesty of tone.  ’May I not hope to see you some day, when you are walking?  All days and times are the same to me; but I am afraid it is only on Sunday that you are at leisure?’

‘Yes, only on a Sunday.’

It took a long time, and many circumlocutions, but in the end an appointment was made.  Monica would see her acquaintance next Sunday evening on the river front of Battersea Park; if it rained, then the Sunday after.  She was ashamed and confused.  Other girls were constantly doing this kind of thing—­other girls in business; but it seemed to put her on the level of a servant.  And why had she consented?  The man could never be anything to her; he was too old, too hard-featured, too grave.  Well, on that very account there would be no harm in meeting him.  In truth, she had not felt the courage to refuse; in a manner he had overawed her.

And perhaps she would not keep the engagement.  Nothing compelled her.  She had not told him her name, nor the house where she was employed.  There was a week to think it over.

All days and times were the same to him—­he said.  And he drove about the country for his pleasure.  A man of means.  His name, according to the card, was Edmund Widdowson.

He was upright in his walk, and strongly built.  She noticed this as he moved away from her.  Fearful lest he should turn round, her eyes glanced at his figure from moment to moment.  But he did not once look back.

* * * * * * * * * *

‘And now to God the Father.’  The bustle throughout the church wakened her from reverie so complete that she knew not a syllable of the sermon.  After all she must deceive her sisters by inventing a text, and perhaps a comment.

By an arrangement with Mrs. Conisbee, dinner was down in the parlour to-day.  A luxurious meal, moreover; for in her excitement Virginia had resolved to make a feast of Monica’s birthday.  There was a tiny piece of salmon, a dainty cutlet, and a cold blackcurrant tart.  Virginia, at home a constant vegetarian, took no share of the fish and meat—­which was only enough for one person.  Alice, alone upstairs, made a dinner of gruel.

Monica was to be at Queen’s Road, Chelsea, by three o’clock.  The sisters hoped she would return to Lavender Hill with her news, but that was left uncertain—­by Monica herself purposely.  As an amusement, she had decided to keep her promise to Mr. Edmund Widdowson.  She was curious to see him again, and receive a new impression of his personality.  If he behaved as inoffensively as at Richmond, acquaintance with him might be continued for the variety it brought into her life.  If anything unpleasant happened, she had only to walk away.  The slight, very slight, tremor of anticipation was reasonably to be prized by a shop-girl at Messrs. Scotcher’s.