The woman called Marian lifted her eyes to him with a look of patient reproach, as if she said, “You are cruel to hit any one so helpless as I am,” and then, playing all the time, she answered coldly,— “I do not know what you are talking about.” “Don’t you! Oh, but indeed I think you do, and I should be very glad to be of use to you if you would let me, for the sake of those old days. I don’t think it is possible I can be mistaken, though you may have your own reason for refusing to confide in me.” He was certain now in his own mind that this was Mercy Porter and no other. That fine touch upon the piano implied sustained and careful cultivation. She did not play like a girl who had learnt music as an afterthought. He left the house when she did, and walked part of the way to Hercules Buildings with her, but did not offer to go out of his way to see her home, being very sure she would refuse. “I wish you would trust me,” he said gently, as they walked side by side, without looking at each other. “Believe me that every one at Cheriton is sorry for you. If you were to go back to the neighbourhood you would have everybody’s sympathy. There would be no one to cast a stone.” “I am very sorry I ever mentioned Cheriton to you, Mr. Dalbrook,” she said impatiently. “It was a foolish impulse that made me talk. You insist upon making guesses. You try to force a confession from me. It is hardly generous.” “My interest in you must be my excuse.” “You can do me no good by that kind of interest. I shall never see Dorsetshire again—so what can it matter who I was when I lived in that part of the world. There are hundreds of women in London as lonely as I am—hundreds—perhaps thousands—who have broken every link with their past. My life suits me well enough, and I am contented. I shall never try to change it.” “That is a pity. You are young enough to make a good wife to an honest man, to help in creating a happy home.” “Am I? I feel a century old; and I have done with every thought of love or marriage. When I woke to consciousness after that dreadful fever, awoke from darkness and oblivion like that of the grave, I entered upon a new life. I came out of that sickness like one who had passed through hell. Passion and hope, and youth and good looks, had been burnt out of me in a fiery furnace. It was a wonder to myself that my body was alive. It was no wonder to me that my heart was dead. From that time I have lived very much as I am living now—after a brief time of struggle and starvation—and the life suits me fairly well. I shall never seek to better it.” “That is hard, Marian.” He called her by her Christian name, frankly, in almost paternal friendliness, not knowing any other name by which to call her.