“Yes, you have!” she cried, stopping short and facing him. “You have dared to kiss me. Oh--a pretty fine gentleman you are--with your patronising superior ways--and I thinking myself an ignorant, common girl, not good enough for you! What were you? A pickpocket?” “You abuse me as if I were one,” said Joyce, bitterly. “Good-night, Miss Stevens. I shall not molest you any further.” He motioned to her with his hand to pass on in front. She regarded him for a moment stonily, and then, with a short exclamation of disgust, swung round sharply and proceeded at a hurried pace down the dismal, ill-lighted street. Joyce watched her until she was swallowed up in the darkness, and had obtained sufficient start for him to follow in her footsteps without fear of overtaking her. But as he walked along, the dread of her indignation seized him. If only he could say another word to her before the morning, he might secure her pity and her silence. The idea grew more and more insistent, until he could bear it no longer. He started off at a run, at first on the pavement of the quiet side street, and then in the roadway by the kerb of the busier thoroughfare into which it led, and regardless of jostling and oaths, continued his way, until he succeeded in catching her up just as she was inserting the latchkey into her door. “Annie,” he cried, his chest heaving painfully from the exertion of running. “Promise me you won’t breathe a word of this to any one.” She let herself in deliberately and stood in the dark passage. “I ’ll promise nothing. I never want to set my eyes on you again!” And then she slammed the door in his face. He turned away sick at heart, and went to his own lodging. Resentment at her coarse anger, and speculation as to the motives of the sudden change from friendliness to hatred were things that did not come to him till afterwards. Sufficient for the night was the despair of the sleepless hours, the dread of the girl’s tongue, and the anguish of tottering hopes. He did not write to Yvonne. The little triumph of the evening seemed like a gay pagoda struck by lightning. CHAPTER VII--A FORLORN HOPE At the railway station the next afternoon he found most of the company already assembled on the platform. Curious glances were cast upon him as he appeared; there were nudgings and whisperings; some giggling on the part of the chorus girls standing round Annie Stevens, who was looking paler and more defiant than usual. A group of his colleagues melted away at his approach. He saw at once what had happened. The fears that had haunted him all the night and all that day were realised. He felt his face and lips grow white, and his limbs trembled. With an instinctive remnant of self-assertion, he went up to Blake, who was standing by one of the reserved carriages. It seemed a long time before he could speak. At last he asked him stupidly at what time the train started. “Four-forty,” said Blake, curtly. “And when do we get to Leeds?”