Janet was right.  Janet had seen things from their proper point of view.  As a trade she should have looked at it.  As the leaving of one master to labour in the service of another she should have weighed its issue.  Yet, even now, the cruelty of that outlook revolted her.  Had she viewed it thus, those three years of absolute happiness could never have been and she could not even forego the memory of them.

But the knowledge that had come to her, brought decision with it.  She could stay no longer where she was.  The thought of meeting just those few people whom she knew, who knew her, in the streets, drove the blood burning to her forehead.  She must go away—­away from London—­away from every chance incident that might fling back in her face the tragedy of her existence.  Away from all its associations she would be able to hide it; not from herself, not from the biting criticism of her own thoughts.  But from others; she could hide it from them.

That night she wrote to Janet asking her to come and see her; and the next day they sat opposite to each other at a table in a quiet restaurant up West.

“I’m going to take your advice,” Sally began.

“You’re going away?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“At once; in a day or two, as soon as I hear from mother.  I wrote to her this morning.”

“What did you say?”

“I said that I’d saved up some money and, as I hadn’t been very well, I wanted to come down and stay with her for a change.  I suggested that I might be of some use in the school.”

“Yes, that’s all right.  But for goodness’ sake don’t let her see that you’ve got a lot of money.  The wives of clergymen, as far as I’ve ever seen, are weaned on the milk of suspicion.  They’ll never believe anybody’s properly married but themselves; I suppose that’s because they’re in the trade.  I know Mr. Cheeseman thinks nobody’s furniture genuine, except his own.  That’s always a little business failing.  But you ought to be careful.”

“But I haven’t any too much money,” said Sally quietly.

Janet gazed up at her in unsympathetic surprise.  “That’s rather unlike you,” she said abruptly.  “I think he was very generous.  A hundred and fifty a year, free of rent for three years, is more, I imagine, than most men would drag out of their pockets.  You could make what living you liked beside that, if you chose to.  I know I should jolly-well think myself a Croesus with that capital.”

Her tone of voice was hard with criticism.

“But do you think I take all he’s offered me?” asked Sally.

“Do you mean to say you don’t?”

“No, I take the very least I can.  A pound a week is all I want for my food; what else should I want?  I wouldn’t touch another penny of it but that till the three years are over.  I have all the clothes I could possibly want.  You thought I was mean, didn’t you, Janet?”

Janet looked up at the ceiling, then impulsively held out her hand.