“You gave me your wrong name!” cried Mavis, who, now that she knew that the man was the friend of her early days, seized on any excuse to get away from him.

“But—­”

“Don’t follow me.  Good-bye.”

She crossed the road.  He came after her and seized her arm.

“Don’t be a fool!” he cried.

“You’ve hurt me.  You’re capable of anything,” she cried.

“Rot!”

“Oh, you brute, to hurt a girl!”

“I’ve done nothing of the kind.  It would almost have served you right if I had, for being such a little fool.  Listen to me—­you shall listen,” he added, as Mavis strove to leave him.

His voice compelled submission.  She looked at him, to see that his face was tense with anger.  She found that she did not hate him so much, although she said, as if to satisfy her conscience for listening to him: 

“Do you want to insult me again?”

“I want to tell you what a fool you are, in chucking away a chance of lifelong happiness, because you’re upset at what I did, when, finding you in that house, I’d every excuse for doing.”

“Lifelong happiness?” cried Mavis scornfully.

“You’re a woman I could devote my life to.  I want to know all about you.  Oh, don’t be a damn little fool!”

“You’re somebody:  I’m a nobody.  Much better let me go.”

“Of course if you want to—­”

“Of course I do.”

“Then let me see you into a cab.”

“A cab!  I always go by ’bus, when I can afford it.”

“Good heavens!  Here, let me drive you home.”

“I shouldn’t have said that.  I’m overwrought to-night.  When I’m in work, I’m ever so rich.  I know you mean kindly.  Let me go.”

“I’ll do nothing of the kind.  It’s all very important to me.  I’m going to drive you home.”

He caught hold of her arm, the while he hailed a passing hansom.  When this drew up to the pavement, he said: 

“Get in, please.”

“But—­”

“Get in,” he commanded.

The girl obeyed him:  something in the man’s voice compelled obedience.

He sat beside her.

“Now, tell me your address.”

Mavis shook her head.

“Tell me your address.”

“Nothing on earth will make me.”

“The man’s waiting.”

“Let him.”

“Drive anywhere.  I’ll tell you where to go later,” Windebank called to the cabman.

The cab started.  The man and the girl sat silent.  Mavis was not reproaching herself for having got into the cab with Windebank; her mind was full of the strange trick which fate had played her in throwing herself and her old-time playmate together.  There seemed design in the action.  Perhaps, after all, their meeting was the reply to her prayer in the tea-shop.

The cab drove along the almost deserted thoroughfare.  It was now between ten and eleven, a time when the flame of the day seems to die down before bursting out into a last brilliance, when the houses of entertainment are emptied into the streets.