“Don’t be angry:  at least not very.  You wouldn’t if you knew how I’ve longed to see you again, to find out what’s become of you.”

“You know now!” she exclaimed defiantly.

“And since I know, what is the use of your getting angry?”

“I hate meanness,” cried Mavis.

“Eh!”

“Spying’s meanness.  It’s hateful:  hateful.”

“So are fools,” he cried, with a vehemence approaching hers.

She looked at him, surprised.  He went on: 

“I hate fools, and much, much as I think of you and much as you will always be to me, I can’t help telling you what a fool you’ve been.”

“Not so loud,” urged Mavis.  They had now reached the corner of much-frequented Lupus Street, where the man’s emphatic voice would attract attention.

“I’ll say what I please.  And if I choose to tell you I think you a precious fool, nothing on earth shall stop me.”

“That’s right:  insult me,” remarked Mavis, who was secretly pleased at his unrestrained anger.

“‘Insult’ be hanged!  You’re an arrant, downright fool!  You’d only to say the word to have been my wife.”

“What an honour!” laughed Mavis, saying the first words which came into her head.  The next moment she would have given much to have been able to recall them.

“For me,” said Windebank gravely.  “And I know I’d have made you happy.”

“I believe you would,” admitted Mavis, wishing to atone for her thoughtless remark.

As if moved by a common impulse, they crossed Lupus Street and sought the first quiet thoroughfare which presented itself.  This happened to be Cambridge Street, along the shabby pretentiousness of which they walked for some minutes in silence, each occupied with their thoughts.

“How did you find out where I was?” she asked.

“Miss Toombs.”

“You’ve seen her?”

“She sent me ‘Halverton Street’ written on a piece of paper.  I guessed what it meant.”

“You spoke to her before about me?”

“Yes.  I was anxious to know what had become of you.”

“You needn’t have bothered.”

“I couldn’t help myself.”

“You really, really cared?”

“A bit.  And now I see what a fool you’ve been—–­”

“It won’t make any difference,” she interrupted.

“What do you mean?” he asked quickly.

“It won’t make any difference to me.  I’m to be married any day now.”

“What’s that?” he asked quickly.

Mavis repeated her statement.

“To whom?”

“The man I love; whom else?”

“Are you counting on that?”

“Of course,” she answered, surprised at the question.

She wondered what he could mean, but she could get no enlightenment from his face, which preserved a sphinx-like impenetrability.

“What are you thinking of?” she asked.

“How best to help you.”