Neither could she go indoors to her solitary room, feeling as she did in such a state of desperate heaviness. When Springrove was out of sight she turned back, and arrived at the corner just in time to see him sit down. Then she glided pensively along the pavement behind him, forgetting herself to marble like Melancholy herself as she mused in his neighbourhood unseen. She heard, without heeding, the notes of pianos and singing voices from the fashionable houses at her back, from the open windows of which the lamp-light streamed to join that of the orange-hued full moon, newly risen over the Bay in front. Then Edward began to pace up and down, and Cytherea, fearing that he would notice her, hastened homeward, flinging him a last look as she passed out of sight. No promise from him to write: no request that she herself would do so--nothing but an indefinite expression of hope in the face of some fear unknown to her. Alas, alas! When Owen returned he found she was not in the small sitting-room, and creeping upstairs into her bedroom with a light, he discovered her there lying asleep upon the coverlet of the bed, still with her hat and jacket on. She had flung herself down on entering, and succumbed to the unwonted oppressiveness that ever attends full-blown love. The wet traces of tears were yet visible upon her long drooping lashes. ‘Love is a sowre delight, and sugred griefe, A living death, and ever-dying life.’ ‘Cytherea,’ he whispered, kissing her. She awoke with a start, and vented an exclamation before recovering her judgment. ‘He’s gone!’ she said. ‘He has told me all,’ said Graye soothingly. ‘He is going off early to-morrow morning. ‘Twas a shame of him to win you away from me, and cruel of you to keep the growth of this attachment a secret.’ ‘We couldn’t help it,’ she said, and then jumping up--‘Owen, has he told you _all_?’ ‘All of your love from beginning to end,’ he said simply. Edward then had not told more--as he ought to have done: yet she could not convict him. But she would struggle against his fetters. She tingled to the very soles of her feet at the very possibility that he might be deluding her. ‘Owen,’ she continued, with dignity, ‘what is he to me? Nothing. I must dismiss such weakness as this--believe me, I will. Something far more pressing must drive it away. I have been looking my position steadily in the face, and I must get a living somehow. I mean to advertise once more.’ ‘Advertising is no use.’ ‘This one will be.’ He looked surprised at the sanguine tone of her answer, till she took a piece of paper from the table and showed it him. ‘See what I am going to do,’ she said sadly, almost bitterly. This was her third effort:-- ‘LADY’S-MAID. Inexperienced. Age eighteen.--G., 3 Cross Street, Budmouth.’ Owen--Owen the respectable--looked blank astonishment. He repeated in a nameless, varying tone, the two words-- ‘Lady’s-maid!’