She did not go back at once, she paced the streets for a long time; perhaps then some hardness was growing up in her heart--some new bitterness at the fashion in which everything and everyone seemed to have conspired to set her aside. When at last she turned her steps towards Locker Street it had grown very late, and she was very tired; she walked with lagging feet. She got to the house and let herself in; the house was dark and silent. Going slowly up the stairs, she had a mental picture of what she must find when she reached her own rooms--Patience asleep in her chair, or Patience asleep in her bed in her own small room. Perhaps, worst of all, Patience asking questions--demanding querulously to know where she had been; perhaps speaking of Jimmy. No--she would not face that yet; she could not face it now. And so she halted on her way, and listened at the door of Charlie's room for a sound within; rapped lightly, and, getting no reply, turned the handle. The room was empty. But the fire burned brightly, and the room held a welcome for her after the wet and chilly streets. Charlie would come in presently, and they could talk for a little while before she went to bed. For quite desperately she wanted someone to whom to talk to-night--someone who loved her; and Charlie had said, times without number, how much he loved her. Poor Charlie, who was unsuccessful, and yet had always a good word for her--always a smile with which to greet her. She took off her hat and laid it down; presently stretched herself at length on the shabby old sofa, and laid her cheek on her palm and looked into the fire. The room was very silent; only the fire ticked a little as it fell together; even the streets were quiet. Lying there, she thought of what her life was to be, in all the days that were coming to her--days of poverty and of struggle such as she had known for so long. "Charlie and I will be together--and perhaps I shall be able to help him," she murmured to herself. "It won't be so bad--with the firelight in the winter--and a quiet room; and in the summer, when the sun shines, the streets and the parks--and perhaps sometimes a glimpse of the country. It won't be so bad--and there will be Charlie. And perhaps Jimmy will----" She broke off there, because her eyes had filled with tears, and she could not go on. She turned her face a little, so that her arm hid it from the fire; she seemed to murmur there a little brokenly: "Jimmy--you might have remembered"--and again, "Jimmy!" Then from sheer weariness she slept, and dreamed that she was back again in the old days and the sun was shining. London was but a far-off dream, and she did not know what it would be like. And so, when presently Charlie Purdue opened the door and looked in, he saw her.