you to bed. I am sorry that my presence here distresses you, but it is a large building and quite empty at night-time. I thought you might wake up and be frightened, so I borrowed this screen from the woman and have been sitting here.”
“What, all night?” she gasped.
“Certainly,” he answered. “The woman could not stop herself and this is not a residential building at all. All the lower floors are let for offices and warehouses, and there is no one else in the place until eight o'clock.”
She put her hands to her head and sat quite still for a moment or two. It was really hard to take everything in.
“Aren't you very sleepy?” she asked, irrelevantly.
“Not very,” he replied. “I dozed for an hour, a little time ago. Since then I have been looking through some plans which interest me very much.”
“Can I get up?” she inquired, timidly.
“If you feel strong enough, please do,” he answered, with manifest relief. “I shall move towards the door, dragging the screen in front of me. You will find a brush and comb and some hairpins on your clothes. I could not think of anything else to get for you, but, if you will dress, we will walk to London Bridge Station, which is just across the way, and while I order some breakfast you can go into the ladies' room and do your hair properly. I did my best to get hold of a looking-glass, but it was quite impossible.”
The girl's sense of humor was suddenly awake. She had hard work not to scream. He had evidently thought out all these details in painstaking fashion, one by one.
“Thank you,” she said. “I will get up immediately, if you will do as you say.”
He clutched the screen from the inside and dragged it towards the door. On the threshold, he spoke to her once more.
“I shall sit upon the stairs just outside,” he announced.
“I sha'n't be more than five minutes,” she assured him.
She sprang out of bed and dressed quickly. There was nothing beyond where the screen had been except a table covered with plans, and a particularly hard cane chair which she dragged over for her own use. As she dressed, she began to realize how much this matter-of-fact, unimpressionable young man had done for her during the last few hours. The reflection affected her in a curious manner. She became afflicted with a shyness which she had not felt when he was in the room. When at last she had finished her toilette and opened the door, she was almost tongue-tied. He was sitting on the top step, with his back against the landing, and his eyes were closed. He opened them with a little start, however, as soon as he heard her approach.
“I am glad you have not been long,” he remarked. “I want to be at my office at nine o'clock and I must go and have a bath somewhere. These stairs are rather steep. Please walk carefully.”
She followed him in silence down three flights of stone steps. On each landing there were names upon the doors—two firms of hop merchants, a solicitor, and a commission agent. The ground floor was some sort of warehouse, from which came a strong smell of leather.
Tavernake opened the outside door with a small key and they passed into the street.
“London Bridge Station is just across the way,” he said. “The refreshment room will be open and we can get some breakfast at once.”
“What time is it?” she asked.
“About half-past seven.”
She walked by his side quite meekly, and although there were many things which she was longing to say, she remained absolutely without the power of speech. Except that he was looking a little crumpled, there was nothing whatever in his appearance to indicate that he had been up all night. He looked exactly as he had done on the previous day, he seemed even quite unconscious that there was anything unusual in their relations. As soon as they arrived at the station, he pointed to the ladies' waiting-room.
“If you will go in and arrange your hair there,” he said, “I will go and order breakfast and have a shave. I will be back here in about twenty minutes. You had better take this.”
He offered her a shilling and she accepted it without hesitation. As soon as he had gone, however, she looked at the coin in her hand in blank wonder. She had accepted it from him with perfect naturalness and without even saying “Thank you!” With a queer little laugh, she pushed open the swinging doors and made her way into the waiting-room.
In hardly more than a quarter of an hour she emerged, to find Tavernake waiting for her. He had retied his tie, bought a fresh collar, had been shaved. She, too, had improved her appearance.
“Breakfast is waiting this way,” he announced.
She followed him obediently and they sat down at a small table in the station refreshment-room.
“Mr. Tavernake,” she asked, suddenly, “I must ask you something. Has anything like this ever happened to you before?”
“Nothing,” he assured her, with some emphasis.
“You seem to take everything so much as a matter of course,” she protested.
“Why not?”
“Oh, I don't know,” she replied, a little feebly. “Only—”
She found relief in a sudden and perfectly natural laugh.
“Come,” he said, “that is better. I am glad that you feel like laughing.”
“As a matter of fact,” she declared, “I feel much more like crying. Don't you know that you were very foolish last night? You ought to have left me alone. Why didn't you? You would have saved yourself a great deal of trouble.”
He nodded, as though that point of view did, in some degree, commend itself to him.
“Yes,” he admitted, “I suppose I should. I do not, even now, understand why I interfered. I can only remember that it didn't seem possible not to at the time. I suppose one must have impulses,” he added, with a little frown.
“The reflection,” she remarked, helping herself to another roll, “seems to annoy you.”
“It does,” he confessed. “I do not like to feel impelled to do anything the reason for which is not apparent. I like to do just the things which seem likely to work out best for myself.”
“How you must hate me!” she murmured.
“No, I do not hate you,” he replied, “but, on the other hand, you have certainly been a trouble to me. First of all, I told a falsehood at the boarding-house, and I prefer always to tell the truth when I can. Then I followed you out of the house, which I disliked doing very much, and I seem to have spent a considerable portion of the time since, in your company, under somewhat extraordinary circumstances. I do not understand why I have done this.”
“I suppose it is because you are a very good-hearted person,” she remarked.
“But I am not,” he assured her, calmly. “I am nothing of the sort. I have very little sympathy with good-hearted people. I think the world goes very
