A week passed.  Alice had written from Yatton, and in a cheerful tone.  Virginia, chronically excited, had made calls at Rutland Street and at Queen’s Road; she talked like one who had suddenly received a great illumination, and her zeal in the cause of independent womanhood rivalled Miss Nunn’s.  Without enthusiasm, but seemingly contented, Monica worked at the typewriting machine, and had begun certain studies which her friends judged to be useful.  She experienced a growth of self-respect.  It was much to have risen above the status of shop-girl, and the change of moral atmosphere had a very beneficial effect upon her.

Mildred Vesper was a studious little person, after a fashion of her own.  She possessed four volumes of Maunder’s ‘Treasuries’, and to one or other of these she applied herself for at least an hour every evening.

‘By nature,’ she said, when Monica sought an explanation of this study, ’my mind is frivolous.  What I need is a store of solid information, to reflect upon.  No one could possibly have a worse memory, but by persevering I manage to learn one or two facts a day.’

Monica glanced at the books now and then, but had no desire to cultivate Maunder’s acquaintance.  Instead of reading, she meditated the problems of her own life.

Edmund Widdowson, of course, wrote to her at the new address.  In her reply she again postponed their meeting.  Whenever she went out in the evening, it was with expectation of seeing him somewhere in the neighbourhood; she felt assured that he had long ago come to look at the house, and more likely than not his eyes had several times been upon her.  That did not matter; her life was innocent, and Widdowson might watch her coming and going as much as he would.

At length, about nine o’clock one evening, she came face to face with him.  It was in Hampstead Road; she had been buying at a draper’s, and carried the little parcel.  At the moment of recognition, Widdowson’s face so flushed and brightened that Monica could not help a sympathetic feeling of pleasure.

‘Why are you so cruel to me?’ he said in a low voice, as she gave her hand.  ‘What a time since I saw you!’

‘Is that really true?’ she replied, with an air more resembling coquetry than any he had yet seen in her.

‘Since I spoke to you, then.’

‘When did you see me?’

’Three evenings ago.  You were walking in Tottenham Court Road with a young lady.’

‘Miss Vesper, the friend I live with.’

‘Will you give me a few minutes now?’ he asked humbly.  ’Is it too late?’

For reply Monica moved slowly on.  They turned up one of the ways parallel with Rutland Street, and so came into the quiet district that skirts Regent’s Park, Widdowson talking all the way in a strain of all but avowed tenderness, his head bent towards her and his voice so much subdued that occasionally she lost a few words.

‘I can’t live without seeing you,’ he said at length.  ’If you refuse to meet me, I have no choice but to come wandering about the places where you are.  Don’t, pray don’t think I spy upon you.  Indeed, it is only just to see your face or your form as you walk along.  When I have had my journey in vain I go back in misery.  You are never out of my thoughts—­never.’