do.  Her clothes, also, supported the impression that she was a young woman well removed from likelihood of want.  She was obliged to be careful with the few pounds that she earned at Brandenburg College:  being of an open-handed disposition, this necessity for economy irked her; but however much she stinted her inclinations in other directions, she was determined, as are so many other young women who are thrown on their own resources, to have one good turn-out in which to make a brave show to the world.  Not that Mavis spent her money, shop-girl fashion, in buying cheap flummery which was, at best, a poor and easily recognisable imitation of the real thing; her purchases were of the kind that any young gentlewoman, who was not compelled to take thought for the morrow, might becomingly wear.  As she walked, most of the men she met looked at her admiringly; some turned to glance at her figure; one or two retraced their steps and would have overtaken her, had she not walked purposefully forward.  She was so used to these tributes to her attractiveness, that she did not give them heed.  She could not help noticing one man; he glanced at her and seemed as if he were about to raise his hat; when she looked at him to see if she knew him, she saw that he was distinguished looking, but a stranger.  She hurried on; presently, she went into a draper’s shop, where she bought a pair of gloves, but, when she came out, the good-looking stranger was staring woodenly at the window.  She hastened forward; turning a corner, she slipped into a tobacconist’s and newsagent’s, where she bought a packet of her favourite cigarettes, together with a box of matches.  When she got to the door, her good-looking admirer was entering the shop.  He made way for her, and, raising his hat, was about to speak:  she walked quickly away and was not troubled with him any more.  When she got to Paddington, she disobeyed Miss Helen’s injunctions to travel in a compartment reserved for ladies, but went into an ordinary carriage, which, by the connivance of the guard, she had to herself.  When the train left Paddington, she put her feet on the cushions of the opposite seat, with a fine disregard of railway bye-laws, and lit a cigarette.

It was, perhaps, inevitable that the girl’s thoughts should incline to the time and the very different circumstances in which she had last journeyed to Melkbridge.  This was nine years ago, when she had come home for the holidays from Eastbourne, where she had been to school.  Then, she had had but one care in the world, this on account of a jaundiced pony to which she was immoderately attached.  Then she suffered her mind to dwell on the unrestrained grief with which she had greeted her favourite’s decease; as she did so, half-forgotten fares, scenes, memories flitted across her mind.  Foremost amongst these was her father’s face—­dignified, loving, kind.  Whenever she thought of him, as now, she best remembered him as he looked when he told her