That moment, however, in which Will Anerley met Annie Brunel’s eyes, and took her hand, and sat down beside her, was one of these. For many past days and weeks his life had been so unbearably dull, stagnant, prosaic, that the mere glad fact of this meeting drove from his mind all consideration of consequences. He looked in her eyes—the beautiful eyes that could not conceal their pleasure—and forgot everything else. For a time, neither of them spoke—the delight of being near to each other was enough; and when they began to recall themselves to the necessity of making some excuse to each other for having broken a solemn promise, they were driving along Piccadilly; and, away down in the darkness, they could see the luminous string of orange points that encircle the Green Park. "I only returned to London to-day," he said, and there was a smile on his face, for he half-pitied his own weakness; "and I could not help going to see you. That was how I kept my promise. But you are not very angry?" "No," she said, looking down. There was no smile upon her face. The events of the last few weeks had been for her too tragic to admit of humorous lights. "You ought not to have come," she said the next minute, hurriedly. "You ought to have stayed away. You yourself spoke of what might happen; and the surprise and the pain of seeing you—I had no thought of your being there—and I was sufficiently miserable at the time not to need any other thing to disturb me—and now—and now you are here, and you and I are the friends we have been——" The passionate earnestness of this speech, to say nothing of its words, surprised and astounded him: why should she have reason to be disturbed? "Why should we not be friends?" he said. She looked at him, with her big, tender, frank eyes, with a strange expression. "You force me to speak. Because we cannot continue friends," she said, in a voice which was almost harsh in its distinctness. "After what you said to me, you have no right to see me. I cannot forget your warning; and I know where you ought to be this evening—not here, but down in St. Mary-Kirby." "That is true enough," said Will, gloomily. "I couldn’t have gone down to St. Mary-Kirby to-night: but, as you say, I have no business to be near you—none whatever. I should not have gone to the theatre; I ought to have stayed at home, and spent the time in thinking of you—why shouldn’t I say it, now that you have been so frank with me? You and I know each other pretty well, do we not? There is no reason, surely, why we may not regard each other as friends, whatever may happen. And why should I not tell you that I fear to go down to St. Mary-Kirby, and meet that poor Dove who has given me her heart?" She said nothing: what could she say? It was not for her to blame him. "And when I went to the theatre, I said, ’It is the last time!’ I could not help going. I did not intend to meet you when you came out." "You did not?" she said.