“I did go over it,” he answered. “But it would be rather absurd for just Mary and me.” “Not often,” she answered.!

The summer was propitious. Phillips knew his London well, and how to get away from it. There were winding lanes in Hertfordshire, Surrey hills and commons, deep, cool, bird-haunted woods in Buckingham. Each week there was something to look forward to, something to plan for and manoeuvre. The sense of adventure, a spice of danger, added zest. She still knocked frequently, as before, at the door of the hideously-furnished little house in North Street; but Mrs. Phillips no longer oppressed her as some old man of the sea she could never hope to shake off from her shoulders. The flabby, foolish face, robbed of its terrors, became merely pitiful. She found herself able to be quite gentle and patient with Mrs. Phillips. Even the sloppy kisses she came to bear without a shudder down her spine. “No, it wasn’t,” answered the child. “Most of them were against it. And then there was Mama,” she added in a lower tone.

They sat on the stone step of the fountain, where they were sheltered from the wind; and she buttoned his long coat about him. “I thought you were something,” answered the girl. “I’m an artist. Or, rather, was,” she added after a pause. “It’s difficult to tell, isn’t it?” she said. “I wonder how one can?”