Winifred stroked her friend's hand in girlish fashion and turned away her head. She knew Clytie too well to make any reply. Then she spoke of Jack, who was in a fair way towards recovery. She had been very glad of Clytie's money, she confessed, with a deep blush, because things at home--well, Clytie knew. And Mr. Treherne, with whom Kent had communicated, had been very kind and helpful. He went round to Mrs. Burmester's every afternoon to cheer up the invalid. “And I suppose you go round pretty often?” said Clytie. “Of course--every afternoon,” replied Winifred simply. And Clytie, as she smoothed the shapely head lying in her lap, smiled to herself a little mysterious smile. Mr. Kent, too, Winifred continued, had been invaluable to her. He had brought the boy picture-books, toys--had sat up with him one night whilst the nurse rested, the mother being quite helpless, and sleeping in an adjoining room which they had rented for the time between them. Never had street arab been so petted, so preciously guarded. He was growing quite human under the treatment. Kent and Treherne had managed to get him a nomination to a decent school-home, which would assure him an honest career in after life. Winifred was enthusiastic. She had never known before what a good, beautiful world it was, how filled with good and beautiful people! In reply to a question of Clytie's she said that she had seen little of Kent lately; that he looked overworked, worried, on the rare occasions when she had exchanged a few words with him. “He is doing too much. I must speak to him about it this evening,” said Clytie. She took it for granted that he would come, if not at the present hour, while they were sitting over the teacups, at any rate after dinner, to discuss in cheery, familiar fashion the events of the past month. But the moments slipped by and his footstep was not heard on the stairs. “Are you sure that he knew I was coming back to-day?” asked Clytie. “Of course. He inquired twice of me,” replied Winifred. Winnie went away, and Clytie dined, took up a book, and waited. But Kent did not come. Clytie felt hurt. If he had been engaged, he might at least have left her a word of welcome. It was unfriendly, unlike him. Surely she could not have offended him in any way. She grew interested in her book, sat up till a late hour finishing it. As she neared the end she heard the well-known footstep coming up the stairs. She laid her book down, expecting to see the door open, but though she thought she detected a faint pause outside on the landing, the sound of the tread did not cease, but continued up the next flight until it was lost. Then she went to bed, somewhat angry.