But _was_ her Aunt Lydia willing?--was she expected to write to her and inquire? She was not entitled to possess dignity, of course; but it was not easy to eat dust because the right to self-respect was forfeited. She had removed to a lodging in Bernard Street, Bloomsbury, and in the fusty sitting-room she sat all day, lonely and miserable, reviewing the blunder of her life. She neither wrote nor read--her writing was an idea she hated now; she merely thought--wishing she could recall the past, wondering how she could bear the future. One afternoon when she sat there, pale and heavy-eyed, the maid-of-all-work announced a visitor, and Mrs. Baines came in. Mamie rose nervously, and the other advanced. She had rehearsed an interview which should be a compromise between the instructions that had been given her by her brother, and the attitude of righteous rebuke that she felt to be a permissible luxury, but the forlornness of the figure before her drove her opening sentence from her head. All she could utter was the girl's name; and then there was a pause in which they looked at each other. "It is kind of you to come," Mamie murmured. "I hope you're well?" said Mrs. Baines. "Not very. I----Won't you sit down?" "I never thought I should see you like this, Mamie!" said the widow half involuntarily, shaking her head. The girl made no answer in words. She caught her breath, and stood passive. If the lash fell she would suffer silently. "We always see sin punished, though." She believed we always did; she retained such startling optimism. "It's not for me to reproach you." "Thank you. I'm not too happy, Aunt Lydia." "I daresay, my dear. I haven't come to make it worse for you." She scrutinised her again. She would have been horrified to hear the suggestion, but her niece's presence was not without a guilty fascination, a pleasurable excitement, to her as she remembered that here was one who had broken the Seventh Commandment. She was sitting opposite a girl who had lived in Paris with a lover; and she was sitting opposite her in circumstances which redounded to her own credit! "I have heard from your father," she went on; "I suppose you know?" "Yes," said Mamie; "he has written me." "And do you wish to make your home with me again? I'm quite ready to take you if you like." "I could never live in Lavender Street any more, Aunt Lydia. You must understand that--that it would be awful to me." "Your father hinted at my moving. It will be a great trouble, but I shan't shirk my duty, dear Mamie. If it will make your burden any easier to bear, we will live together somewhere else. I say, if I can make your burden any easier for you, I will live somewhere else." "I am not ungrateful. I.... Yes, if you will have me, I should like to come to you." Mrs. Baines sighed, and smoothed her skirt tremulously. "To Balham?" she inquired. "You are moving to Balham?"