“It is you,” he said. He seemed a little dazed. They grew less and less afraid of looking at one another as they felt that darkened room further and further behind them.!

“Yes,” she answered. “If he comes back.” There was a little catch in her voice. “And it was here that you proposed to her,” said Joan.

The tower of Chelsea Church brought back to her remembrance of the wheezy old clergyman who had preached there that Sunday evening, that now seemed so long ago, when her footsteps had first taken her that way by chance. Always she had intended making inquiries and discovering his name. Why had she never done so? It would surely have been easy. He was someone she had known as a child. She had become quite convinced of that. She could see his face close to hers as if he had lifted her up in his arms and was smiling at her. But pride and power had looked out of his eyes then. Joan was making herself a cup of tea when there came a tap at the door. It was Mrs. Phillips. Suddenly she heard a light step in the passage, and the room door opened. A girl entered. She was wearing a large black hat and a black boa round her neck. Between them her face shone unnaturally white. She carried a small cloth bag. She started, on seeing Joan, and seemed about to retreat.