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something must be decided at once—the money she had would only keep her for a few days more. She need not be nervous about walking alone here: no one looked twice at the pale-faced girl in the coat and skirt that had evidently seen much hard wear. Girls brought up to straitened means would have had all sorts of devices at their finger-ends for freshening a shabby garment, but no such artifices were known to Pamela. She would hardly have recognised herself now, seen suddenly in passing a shop-window.

A quarter of an hour’s walk brought her to the Gardens. It was good to see flowers again—to feel grass under one’s feet. For five minutes she would sit still and pretend there was nothing wrong—that she had nothing to think of but the beautiful things about her and the friends who loved her still. But, curiously enough, the only friend on whom her tired mind consented to dwell was Tony—Tony in a London ball-room, his face so brown above his white shirt-front Tony in Alison Straine’s drawing-room, his grey eyes bent on her in a kind of horror—Tony with a strangely soft friendly voice, bidding her good-bye. He would be very sorry to see her like this, so far away and desolate. . . . At that thought she got up hastily, fighting against the wave of loneliness which threatened her, and made her way along a path which curved invitingly and led away from the more frequented parts of the Gardens. It ran slightly uphill after a moment, and half-way up the little incline she raised her eyes to a man who was approaching. The next instant she was face to face with Tony.

She stood absolutely still. After an almost unnoticeable hesitation, he continued to walk forward, as if unconscious of her presence. It was evident that he had not recognised her, but she had no doubt as to his identity, though she knew vaguely that he had changed in some way.

“Tony!” she cried, standing just before him and barring his path.