come to the sponging-house?  Berating myself:  had her affection been other than that of a life-long friendship she would not have come an inch.  But why had she made me stay in London?  Why had she spoken so to Comyn?  What interpretation might be put upon a score of little acts of hers that came a-flooding to mind, each a sacred treasure of memory?  A lover’s interpretation, forsooth.  Fie, Richard! what presumption to think that you, a raw lad, should have a chance in such a field!  You have yet, by dint of hard knocks and buffets, to learn the world.

By this I had come in sight of her house, and suddenly I trembled like a green horse before a cannon.  My courage ran out so fast that I was soon left without any, and my legs had carried me as far as St. James’s Church before I could bring them up.  Then I was sure, for the first time, that she did not love me.  In front of the church I halted, reflecting that I had not remained in England with any hope of it, but rather to discover the truth about Chartersea’s actions, and to save her, if it were possible.  I turned back once more, and now got as far as the knocker, and lifted it as a belfry was striking the hour of noon.  I think I would have fled again had not the door been immediately opened.

Once more I found myself in the room looking out over the Park, the French windows open to the balcony, the sunlight flowing in with the spring-scented air.  On the table was lying a little leather book, stamped with gold,—­her prayerbook.  Well I remembered it!  I opened it, to read:  “Dorothy, from her Mother.  Annapolis, Christmas, 1768.”  The sweet vista of the past stretched before my eyes.  I saw her, on such a, Mayday as this, walking to St. Anne’s under the grand old trees, their budding leaves casting a delicate tracery at her feet.  I followed her up the aisle until she disappeared in the high pew, and then I sat beside my grandfather and thought of her, nor listened to a word of Mr. Allen’s sermon.  Why had they ever taken her to London?

When she came in I sought her face anxiously.  She was still pale; and I thought, despite her smile, that a trace of sadness lingered in her eyes.

“At last, sir, you have come,” she said severely.  “Sit down and give an account of yourself at once.  You have been behaving very badly.”

“Dorothy—­”

“Pray don’t ‘Dorothy’ me, sir.  But explain where you have been for this week past.”

“But, Dolly—­”

“You pretend to have some affection for your old playmate, but you do not trouble yourself to come to see her.”

“Indeed, you do me wrong.”

“Do you wrong!  You prefer to gallivant about town with Comyn and Charles Fox, and with all those wild gentlemen who go to Brooks’s.  Nay, I have heard of your goings-on.  I shall write to Mr. Carvel to-day, and advise him to send for you.  And tell him that you won a thousand pounds in one night—­”

“It was only seven hundred,” I interrupted sheepishly.  I thought she smiled faintly.