and so when their quarterly cheque arrived, they took it as a kindly but not remarkable act of duty upon the part of their wealthy grandson in the City, with no suspicion as to the difference which their allowance was making to him.  Nor did he himself look upon his action as a virtuous one, but simply as a thing which must obviously be done.  In the meantime, he had stuck closely to his work, had won rapid promotion in the Insurance Office in which he had started as junior clerk, had gained the goodwill of his superiors through his frank, unaffected ways, and had been asked to play for the second Surrey eleven at cricket.  So without going the length of saying that he was worthy of Maude Selby, one might perhaps claim—­if it could be done without endangering that natural modesty which was one of his charms—­that he was as worthy as any other young man who was available.

That unfortunate artistic soul of his, which had been in the tropics of expectation, and was now in the arctic of reaction, had just finally settled down to black despair, with a grim recognition of the fact that Maude had certainly and absolutely given him up, when one boomed from the station clock, and on the very stroke she hurried on to the platform.  How could he have strained his eyes after other women, as if a second glance were ever needed when it was really she!  The perfectly graceful figure, the trimness and neatness of it, the beautiful womanly poise of the head, the quick elastic step, he could have sworn to her among ten thousand.  His heart gave a bound at the sight of her, but he had the English aversion to giving himself away, and so he walked quickly forward to meet her with an impassive face, but with a look in his eyes which was all that she wanted.

‘How are you?’

‘How do you do?’

He stood for a few moments looking at her in silence.  She had on the dress which he loved so much, a silver-grey merino skirt and jacket, with a blouse of white pongee silk showing in front.  Some lighter coloured trimming fringed the cloth.  She wore a grey toque, with a dash of white at the side, and a white veil which softened without concealing the dark brown curls and fresh girlish face beneath it.  Her gloves were of grey suede, and the two little pointed tan shoes peeping from the edge of her skirt were the only touches of a darker tint in her attire.  Crosse had the hereditary artist’s eye, and he could only stand and stare and enjoy it.  He was filled with admiration, with reverence, and with wonder that this perfect thing should really proclaim itself to be all his own.  Whatever had he done, or could he do, to deserve it?

She looked up at him in a roguish sidelong way, with the bright mischievous smile which was one of her charms.

‘Well, sir, do you approve?’

‘By Jove, it is splendid—­beautiful!’

’So glad!  I hoped you would, since you are so fond of greys.  Besides, it is cooler in this weather.  I hope you have not been waiting.’