“I’m waiting, Mr. Matthew,” she said, in a tone that flattened the smile out of Matthew’s sympathetic face.  She was ruthless.  The fact was, she had in an instant convinced herself that Cyril had met some girl and was engaged to be married.  She could think of nothing else.  “What has Cyril been doing?” she added, after a pause.

“It’s nothing to do with Cyril,” said he.

“Then what is it?”

“It was about—­Mrs. Scales,” he murmured, nearly trembling.  As she offered no response, merely looking around her in a peculiar fashion, he said:  “Shall we walk along a bit?” And he turned in the direction in which she had been going.  She obeyed the suggestion.

“What did ye say?” she asked.  The name of Scales for a moment had no significance for her.  But when she comprehended it she was afraid, and so she said vacantly, as though wishing to postpone a shock:  “What did ye say?”

“I said it was about Mrs. Scales.  You know I m-met her in Paris.”  And he was saying to himself:  “I ought not to be telling this poor old thing here in the street.  But what can I do?” “Nay, nay!” she muttered.

She stopped and looked at him with a worried expression.  Then he observed that the hand that carried her reticule was making strange purposeless curves in the air, and her rosy face went the colour of cream, as though it had been painted with one stroke of an unseen brush.  Matthew was very much put about.

“Hadn’t you better—­” he began.

“Eh,” she said; “I must sit me—­” Her bag dropped.

He supported her to the door of Allman’s shop, the ironmonger’s.  Unfortunately, there were two steps up into the shop, and she could not climb them.  She collapsed like a sack of flour on the first step.  Young Edward Allman ran to the door.  He was wearing a black apron and fidgeting with it in his excitement.

“Don’t lift her up—­don’t try to lift her up, Mr. Peel-Swynnerton!” he cried, as Matthew instinctively began to do the wrong thing.

Matthew stopped, looking a fool and feeling one, and he and young Allman contemplated each other helpless for a second across the body of Constance Povey.  A part of the Market Place now perceived that the unusual was occurring.  It was Mr. Shawcross, the chemist next door to Allman’s who dealt adequately with the situation.  He had seen all, while selling a Kodak to a young lady, and he ran out with salts.  Constance recovered very rapidly.  She had not quite swooned.  She gave a long sigh, and whispered weakly that she was all right.  The three men helped her into the lofty dark shop, which smelt of nails and of stove-polish, and she was balanced on a ricketty chair.

“My word!” exclaimed young Allman, in his loud voice, when she could smile and the pink was returning reluctantly to her cheeks.  “You mustn’t frighten us like that, Mrs. Povey!”

Matthew said nothing.  He had at last created a genuine sensation.  Once again he felt like a criminal, and could not understand why.