With an impatient sigh Beaumont roused himself from his day dream to find himself seated on a cold stone under a sky from whence the glory of the sunset had departed; and beside him silently stood a veiled woman. He jumped to his feet in surprise, feeling somewhat cramped, and was about to speak when the woman threw back her heavy veil, showing him the pitiful face of his dream. "Patience Allerby!" he gasped, recoiling a step. "Patience Allerby," she replied, sternly, folding her hands in front of her black dress, "the very woman, Basil Beaumont, whom you loved, ruined and deserted in London more than twenty years ago." Beaumont, with an effort, threw off the glamour of past thoughts which had haunted him all the afternoon, and, with a sneering laugh, relapsed once more into the bitter-tongued, cynical man of the world. He rapidly rolled a cigarette and, having lighted it, began to smoke, gazing critically meanwhile at the stern white face looking at him from out the shadowy twilight. "More than twenty years ago!" he repeated, thoughtfully. "Humph! it's a long time--and now we meet again! You've altered, Patience--yes, altered a great deal--for the worse." She laughed bitterly. "I hardly think the life I have led since you left me was the kind to enable me to retain my good looks." "No?" he said, interrogatively, "and why not? you are housekeeper to Squire Garsworth, I understand--not a very wearying position! Trouble tells more on woman's beauty than years; so, as you have had no trouble----" "Had no trouble!" echoed Patience, in a low, harsh voice. "Man, man! do you think one needs to live in the world to know what trouble is? You are wrong. Down in this secluded village I have passed many a bitter hour thinking of you." "And why?" he asked, cynically. "I think you can guess the reason. When I left Garsworth to go to service in London you said you loved me, and I thought the son of a gentleman was to be my husband." "You always did expect too much." "You came to London shortly afterwards and met me there by appointment. I left my situation and lived with you." "As my mistress, yes; not my wife." "No! You were too cowardly to do justice to the woman you ruined. A child was born--a boy whom I idolized. But, instead of that being a bond to draw us closer together, you left me--left me to starve with my child in the streets of London." "I left you because I saw a chance of making money," he said, complacently. "You were a drag on me, and I could not endure poverty, even with you, my dear. As to starving, I left you what money I could spare." "Five pounds!" she said, coldly. "The price of a woman's heart, according to your calculation; it enabled me to pay the landlady and bring myself and the child to Garsworth." "Why did you not stay in London?"