factory, which resulted in her meeting with Perigal.  It was the Devitts, in the person of Victoria, who had prevented Perigal from keeping his many times repeated promises to marry Mavis.  The Devitts had blighted her life.  Black hate filled her heart, overflowed and poisoned her being.  She hungered to be revenged on these Devitts, to repay them with heavy interest for the irreparable injury to her life for which she believed them responsible.  Then, she remembered how tenderly Montague Devitt had always spoken of his invalid boy Harold; a soft light had come into his eyes on the few occasions on which Mavis had asked after him.  A sudden resolution possessed her, to be immediately weakened by re-collections of Montague’s affection for his son.  Then a procession of the events in her life, which were for ever seared into her memory, passed before her mind’s eye—­the terror that possessed her when she learned that she was to be a mother; her interview with Perigal at Dippenham; her first night in London, when she had awakened in the room in the Euston Road; Mrs Gowler’s; her days of starvation in Halverton Street; the death and burial, not only of her boy, but of her love for and faith in Perigal—­all were remembered.  Mavis’s mind was made up.  She went to her bedroom, where, with infinite deliberation, she dressed for going out.

“Mr Harold Devitt!” she said, when she came upon him waiting on his tricycle by the foolish little monument raised to the memory of one of Alfred the Great’s victories over invading Danes.

The man raised his hat, while he looked intently at Mavis.

“I have to thank you for almost the dearest treasure I’ve ever possessed.  Do you remember Jill?”

“Of course:  I wondered if it might prove to be she when I first saw her.  But is your name, by any chance, Miss Keeves?”

Mavis nodded.

“I’ve often wondered if I were ever going to meet you.  And when I saw you about—–­”

“You noticed me?”

“Who could help it?  I’m in luck.”

“What do you mean?” she asked lightly.

“Meeting with you down here.”

Thus they talked for quite a long while.  Long before they separated for the day, Mavis’s eyes had been smiling into his.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

MAVIS AND HAROLD

“You’re late!”

“I always am.  I’ve been trying to make myself charming.”

“That wouldn’t be difficult.”

“You think so?”

“I’m sure of it.”

Mavis spoke lightly, but Harold’s voice was eloquent of conviction.

“I’m sure of it,” he repeated, as if to himself.

“Am I so perfect?” she asked, as her eyes sought the ground.

“In my eyes.  But, then, I’m different from other men.”

“You are.”

“You needn’t remind me of it.”

“Isn’t it nice to be different from others?”