"I--I don't know," he said, irresolutely. She noticed that he did not try to pledge her not to give him away. And she, on her side, did not threaten to do so. She argued with him a little more, trying to get at his real thoughts, and to straighten them out for him. But it was evident he had made up such mind as he had, and that his sudden resolution--even the ugly scene which had made him take it--had been a relief. He knew at last where he stood. So presently Doris let him go. They parted, liking each other decidedly. He thanked her warmly--though drearily--for taking an interest in him, and he said to her on the threshold: "Some day, I hope, you'll come to Crosby Ledgers again, Mrs. Meadows--and I'll be there--for once! Then I'll tell you--if you care--more about it. Thanks awfully! Good-bye." * * * * * Later on, when "Miss Flink," in a state of sulky collapse, had been sent home in her taxi, Doris, Bentley, and Miss Wigram held a conference. But it came to little. Bentley, the hater of "rows," simply could not be moved to take the thing up. "I kept her from scalping him!--" he laughed--"and I'm not due for any more!" Doris said little. A whirl of arguments and projects were in her mind. But she kept her own counsel about them. As to the possibility of inducing the man to break it off, she repeated the only condition on which it could be done; at which Uncle Charles laughed, and Alice Wigram fell into a long and thoughtful silence. * * * * * Doris arrived at home rather early. What with the emotions of the day, the heat, and her work, she was strangely tired and over-done. After tea she strolled out into Kensington Gardens, and sat under the shade of trees already autumnal, watching the multitude of children--children of the people--enjoying the nation's park all to themselves, in the complete absence of their social betters. What ducks they were, some of them--the little, grimy, round-faced things--rolling on the grass, or toddling after their sisters and brothers. They turned large, inquisitive eyes upon her, which seemed to tease her heart-strings. And suddenly,--it was in Kensington Gardens that out of the heart of a long and vague reverie there came a flash--an illumination--which wholly changed the life and future of Doris Meadows. After the thought in which it took shape had seized upon her, she sat for some time motionless; then rising to her feet, tottering a little, like one in bewilderment, she turned northwards, and made her way hurriedly towards Lancaster Gate. In a house there, lived a lady, a widowed lady, who was Doris's godmother, and to whom Doris--who had lost her own mother in her childhood--had turned for counsel before now. How long it was since she had seen "Cousin Julia"!--nearly two months. And here she was, hastening to her, and not able to bear the thought that in all human probability Cousin Julia was not in town.