Of course she could continue exactly as she was. There would be no difficulty about her income--she could go on her way making friends, become even a power in the small social world whose recognition had given her such unqualified delight. But Strone was not a man to deceive himself, and he knew very well that under the good-natured, vulgar exterior there remained the woman, passionate, jealous, hypersensitive. He remembered that last night in Marlow Crescent. He had saved her then, only to fling her back into the abyss! He tried hard to reason with himself. There was a world open to him of which she could not possibly become a denizen. Her presence by his side would hamper his career--would place him continually in a false position, would be a serious drawback to him in the great struggle on behalf of those suffering millions into which he was longing to throw himself. For Strone, at least, was honest in this. His personal ambition was a small thing. He was an enthusiast in a great and unselfish cause. The favor of Lord Sydenham, the social recognition which Lady Malingcourt was able to secure for him, he welcomed only as important means toward his great end. He was shrewd enough to see their importance, but for society as a thing by itself he had no predilection whatever. "Enoch!" She came out to him across the lawn. He turned and watched her thoughtfully. She wore a loose, white morning wrapper, simply made and absolutely inoffensive, and he noticed, too, that the fringe against which he had made several ineffectual protests was brushed back, greatly to the improvement of her appearance. She was pale, and her eyes watched him anxiously. Almost it seemed to him that she might in some way have divined what was in store for her. "Enoch," she exclaimed. "You are home, then?" "Yes," he answered. "I came in so late last night that I did not disturb you. Is breakfast ready?" "Waiting." She led the way, and he followed her. She asked him no questions as to his unexplained absence yesterday, and she made several attempts at conversation, to which he returned only vague answers. Toward the close of the meal, he looked up at her. "I want to have a few words with you, Milly, before I go," he said. "Will you come into the study when we have finished?" She nodded. "Come into my workroom," she said. "I've got something to say to you. I--I had a visitor yesterday." Even when they were alone and the door was shut, he shrank from his task. He looked around, surprised at the evidences of industry. "Are you making your own dresses?" he asked. "I didn't think that was in your line." "No, but there is plenty of work to do," she answered hurriedly. "Enoch, I had a visitor yesterday." "You get a good many, don't you?" he answered indifferently. "This one was different. It was Mr. Martinghoe." He was surprised. "Did he come to see you?"