Windebank, who had been walking between her and the curb, suddenly moved so that she was on the outside.

“Why did you do that?” she asked.

“The wind.  Little Mavis might take cold.”

She could bear it no longer.

“Stop!” she cried.

He looked at her in surprise.

“I’ve something to tell you.  I can’t go on like this.”

“What is it?” he asked, all concern.

“When you know, you’ll never forgive me.  I lied to you.”

“Lied?”

“Yes, lied, lied, lied.  But I can’t let it go on.  I hate myself for doing it.  Why was I so wicked?”

“Give it up.”

“My name.  I told you a lie about it.”

“Is that all?”

“Isn’t that enough?  I am Mavis Keeves.  I am—­”

“What?” he interrupted.

“I didn’t like to confess it before.  Don’t, please don’t think very badly of me.”

“You—­little Mavis after all?”

“Yes,” she answered softly.

“What wonderful, wonderful luck!  I can’t believe it even now.  You little Mavis!  How did it all come about?”

“It’s simple enough.”

“Simple!” He laughed excitedly.  “You call it simple?”

“Let me tell you.  I was very miserable to-day and I prayed and—­and--”

She could say no more; her overcharged feelings were such that they got the better of her self-control.  Careless of what he might think, she leaned against him, as if for protection—­leaned against him to weep bitter-sweet, unrestrained tears upon his shoulder.

“Poor little girl!  Poor little Mavis!” he murmured.

The remark reinforced her tears.

The fog again enveloped them and seemed to cut them off from the observation of passers-by.  It was as if their tenderness for each other had found an oasis in the wilderness of London’s heartlessness.

Mavis wept unrestrainedly, contentedly, as if secure or sympathetic understanding.  Although he spoke, she gave small heed to his words.  She revelled in the unaccustomed luxury of friendship expressed by a man for whom she, already, had something in the nature of an affectionate regard.

Presently, when she became calmer, she gave more attention to what he was saying.

“You must give me your address and I’ll write to my people at once,” he said.  “The mater will be no end of glad to see you again, and you must come down.  I’ll be down often and—­and—­Oh, little Mavis, won’t it be wonderful, if all our lives we were to bless the day we met again?”

Although her sobs had ceased, she did not reply.

Two obsessions occupied her thoughts:  one was an instinct of abasement before the man who had such a tender concern for her future; the other, a fierce pride, which revolted at the thought of her being under a possibly lifelong obligation to the man with whom, in the far-off days of her childhood, she had been on terms of economic equality.  He produced his handkerchief and gently wiped her eyes.  She did not know whether to be grateful for, or enraged at, this attention.  The two conflicting emotions surged within her; their impulsion was a cause which threatened to exert a common effect, inasmuch as they urged her to leave Windebank.