Could Hugh Alston have seen her now, her face softened by the gladness and the gratitude that had come to her, he would have seen in her the woman of his dreams. The banknote would clear everything. She did not scruple to accept it in the spirit of affection in which it was offered. It would have been churlish and false pride to refuse. He had said that he would send for her when the morning came; he had taken it for granted that she would go, and there was no need to answer the letter. And when the morning came she was ready and waiting, her things packed, her last bill to Mrs. Wenham paid. The maid came tapping on the door. “Someone waiting for you, miss, in the drawing-room.” Joan went down. It would be the old fellow, the warm-hearted old man himself come to fetch her! She entered the big ugly room, with its dingy wall-paper and threadbare carpet, its oleographs in tarnished frames, its ancient centre ottoman, its elderly piano and unsafe, uncertain chairs. How she hated this room, where of evenings the ‘paying guests’ distorted themselves. But she came into it now eagerly, with bright eyes and flushed cheeks, and hand held out, only to draw back with sudden chill. It was Mr. Philip Slotman who rose from the ottoman. “Joan, I’ve come to tell you I am sorry, sorry and ashamed,” he said. “I was mad. I want you to forgive me.” “There need be no talk of forgiveness,” she said. “You are the type of man one can perhaps forget—never forgive!” He winced a little, and his face changed to a dusky red. “I said more than I meant to say. But what I said, after all, was right enough. I know more about you than I think you guess. I know about that fellow, that—what’s his name?—Alston—who came. I know why he came.” “You are a friend of his, perhaps? I am not surprised.” “I never saw him before in my life, but I know all about him—and you—all the same. He was willing to act fairly to you after all, and—” “What is this to do with you?” she asked. “A lot!” he said thickly. “A lot! Look here!” He took another step towards her. “Last night I behaved like a mad fool. I—I said more than I meant to say. I—I saw you, and I thought of that fellow—and—and you, and it drove me mad!” “Why?” She was looking at him with calm eyes of contempt, the same look that she had given to Hugh Alston at their last meeting. “Why—why?” he said. “Why?” He clenched his hands. “You know why, you know I love you! I want you! I’ll marry you! I’ll dig a hole and bury the past in it—curse the past! I’ll say nothing more, Joan. I swear before Heaven I’ll never try and dig up the past again. I forgive everything!” “You—you forgive everything?” Her eyes blazed. “What have you to forgive? What right have you to tell me that you forgive—me?” “I can’t let you go, I can’t! Joan, I tell you I’ll never throw the past in your face. I’ll forget Alston and—” The door behind the girl opened, the maid appeared.