From Chancery Lane she passed into Fleet Street, and sauntered along with observation of shop-windows. She was unspeakably relieved by the events of the afternoon; it would now depend upon her own choice whether she preserved her secret, or declared herself a married woman. Her husband had proved himself generous as well as loving; yes, she repeated to herself, generous and loving; her fears and suspicions had been baseless. Mrs. Tarrant’s death freed them from all sordid considerations. A short time, perhaps a day or two, might put an end to irregularities, and enable her to hold up her head once more. Feeling hungry, she entered a restaurant, and dined. Not carelessly, but with fastidious choice of viands. This was enjoyable; she began to look more like herself of a few months ago. She would return to Camberwell by train from Ludgate Hill. At the circus, crowding traffic held her back for a minute or two; just as she ran forward, a familiar voice caused her to stop again. She became flurried, lost her head, stood still amid a tumult of omnibuses, cabs and carts; but a hand grasped her by the arm, and led her safely to the opposite pavement. ‘What do you mean by shouting at me in the street?’ were her first words. The person addressed was Luckworth Crewe; he had by no means anticipated such wrathful greeting, and stood in confusion. ‘I beg your pardon, Miss. Lord. I didn’t think I shouted. I only meant to call your attention.’ ‘Why should you call my attention?’ Her cheeks were flushed with anger; she regarded him as though he were a stranger guilty of mere insolence. ‘I don’t wish to speak to you.’ With astonishment, Crewe found himself alone. But a rebuff such as this, so irrational as he thought it, so entirely out of keeping with Miss. Lord’s behaviour, he could by no means accept. Nancy was walking towards the railway-station; he followed. He watched her as she took a ticket, then put himself in her way, with all the humility of countenance he could command. ‘I’m so sorry I offended you. It wasn’t the right thing to do; I ought to have waited till you were across. I’m a blundering sort of fellow in those things. Do let me beg your pardon, and forgive me.’