Her heart went out to Hobart. He had loved her; she had always been very fond of him. In her drab uneventful girlhood he had provided patches of enjoyment; in that awful married life he had now and then been a refuge. She did not know Cicely, but Hobart would surely have chosen a nice girl, one who would be a friend, who would understand it all, who could be talked to about it all? With a happy smile and a pretty blush she met Hobart and his bride Cicely. She saw him speak to her, a quick, hurried word. Cicely replied--Winnie saw the rapid turn of her head and the movement of her lips. He spoke once more--just as Winnie nodded and smiled at him, and he was raising his hand to his hat. Then came the encounter. But before it was fairly begun, Winnie's heart was turned to lead. Hobart's face was flushed; his hand came out to hers in a stiff reluctance. The tall fair girl stood so tall, so erect, looking down, bowing, not putting out a hand at all, ignoring a pathetically comic appeal in her embarrassed husband's eyes. Winnie's eager words of congratulation, of cordiality and friendship, met with a chilly "Thank you," uttered under an obvious protest, under _force majeure_. Winnie set her eyes on Hobart's, but his were turned away; a rigid smile on his lips paid a ghastly tribute to courtesy. Winnie carried the thing through as briefly as possible. She was not slow to take a cue. "Well, I'm glad to have run across you," she said, "and when you're settled in, I must come and see you. You won't want to be bothered just yet." Again Hobart's glance appealed desperately to his wife. But his wife left the answer to him. "We are a bit chaotic still," he stumbled. "But soon, I hope, Winnie----" "I'll give you notice. Don't be afraid! Now I must hurry on--good-bye." "Good-bye," said Cicely, with another inclination of her head--it seemed so high above Winnie's, looking down from such an altitude. "Good-bye, Winnie." A kindliness, queerly ashamed of itself, struggled to expression in Hobart's voice. When the pair had passed by--after a safe interval--Winnie turned and looked at their retreating figures, the haughty erect girl, dear old Hobart's broad solid back, somewhat bowed by much office work. Winnie was smiling; it is sometimes the only thing to do. "This isn't my lucky day." So she phrased her thoughts to herself, coupling together the encounter in Hyde Park with what was now--at this moment--going on in Woburn Square; for it was not yet tea-time, and Godfrey's visit would last, according to custom, till after tea. She got home and waited for him in the dusk of the autumn evening. An apprehension possessed her; she did not know how much effect Woburn Square might have had upon him. But he came in about six, cheerful, affectionate, unchanged. On the subject of his home-visit, however, he was rather reticent.