“I meant to find you, Glory, if I tramped all London over and everybody denied you to me”--the lump in her throat was hurting her dreadfully--“but I chanced to see the name over the music hall.” She saw it coming, and broke into laughter. “The music hall! Only think! You looking at music halls!” “I was there on Monday night.” “You? Monday? Then perhaps it was not my fancy that I saw you by the stage do--.” Her nerves were getting more and more excited, and to calm them she crossed her arms above her head. “So they gave you my address at the stage door, did they?” “No, I wrote for it to Peel.” “Peel?” She caught her breath, and her arms came down. “Then perhaps you told them where----” “I told them nothing, Glory.” She looked at him through her eyelashes, her head held down. “Not that it matters, you know.” “I've just been writing to them, and they'll soon--But, oh, I've so much to say, and I can't say it here. Couldn't we go somewhere? Into the park or on to the heath, or farther--much farther--the room is so small, and I feel as if I've been suffocating for want of air.” “I've something to say too, and if----” “Then let it be to-morrow morning, and we'll start early, and you'll bring me back in time for the theatre. Say Paddington Station, at eleven--will that do?” “Yes.” She saw him to the gate, and when he was going she wanted him to kiss her hand, so she pretended to do the high handshake, but he only held it for a moment and looked steadily into her eyes. The sunshine was pouring into the garden, and she was bareheaded. Her hair was coiled up, and she was wearing a light morning blouse. He thought she had never looked so beautiful. On getting into the omnibus at the end of the street he took a letter out of his vest pocket, and, being alone, he first carried it to his lips, then reopened and read it: “See her at once, dear John, and keep in touch with her, and I shall be happy and relieved. As for your father, that old Chaise is going crazy and is sending Lord Storm crazy too. He has actually discovered that the dust the witch walks on who has cast the evil eye on you lies in front of Glenfaba gate, and he has been sweeping it up o' nights and scattering it in front of Knockaloe! What simplicity! There are only two women here. Does the silly old gawk mean Rachel? or is it, perhaps, Aunt Anna?” And while the omnibus joggled down the street, and the pale young clergyman with the great weary eyes was poring over his letter, Glory was sitting at her table and writing with flying fingers and a look of enthusiastic ecstasy: