To-morrow she must give an answer to Dion Leith.  She went on slowly in the fog, thinking, thinking.  Two vertical lines showed in her usually smooth forehead.

It was nearly half-past six when she turned into Welby Street.  The church was not a large one and there was no parish attached to it.  It was a proprietary chapel.  The income of the incumbent came from pew rents.  His name was Limer, and he was a first-rate preacher of the sensational type, a pulpit dealer in “actualities.”  He was also an excellent musician, and took great pains with his choir.  In consequence of these talents, and of his diligent application of them, St. Mary’s was generally full, and all its pews were let at a high figure.  To-night, however, because of the fog, Rosamund expected to find few people.

One bell was mournfully ringing as she drew near and presently saw a faint gleaming of light through long narrow windows of painted glass.  “Ping, ping, ping!” It was a thin little summons to prayer.  She passed through a gateway in some railings of wrought ironwork, crossed a slippery pavement and entered the church.

It was already more than three parts full, and there was a large proportion of men in the congregation.  A smart-looking young man, evidently a gentleman, who was standing close to the door, nodded to Rosamund and whispered: 

“I’ll put you into Lady Millingham’s seat.  You’ll find Mrs. Chetwinde and Mr. Darlington there.”

“Oh, I’d rather—­” began Rosamund.

But he had already begun to move up the aisle, and she was obliged to follow him to a pew close to the pulpit, in which were seated a smartly dressed woman with a vague and yet acute expression, pale eyes and a Burne-Jones throat; and a thin, lanky and immensely tall man of uncertain age, with pale brown, very straight hair, large white ears, thick ragged eyebrows, a carefully disarranged beard and mustache, and an irregular refined face decorated with a discreet but kind expression.  These were Mrs. Willie Chetwinde, who had a wonderful house in Lowndes Square, and Mr. Esme Darlington, bachelor, of St. James’s Square, who was everybody’s friend including his own.

Rosamund just recognized them gravely; then she knelt down and prayed earnestly, with her face hidden against her muff.  She still heard the little bell’s insistent “Ping, ping, ping!” She pressed her shut eyes so hard against the muff that rings of yellow light floated up in her darkness, forming, retreating, melting away.

The bell ceased; the first notes of the organ sounded in a voluntary by Mendelssohn, amiable and charming; the choir filed in as Rosamund rose from her knees.  In the procession the two last figures were Mr. Limer and Mr.—­or, as he was always called in Liverpool, Father—­Robertson.