“What a pretty, empty phrase,” she said, with a little sigh and a droop of the corners of her mouth. “Sayings like that are the threepenny bits of conversation; they’re not worth sixpence, but they’re better than coppers. Now, I must be off.” “It’s quite early.” “Yes, for you. But for me—Kennington and high tea; but you know neither of them.” “You’ve asked me to come——” “Not to high tea. Come some afternoon or evening. Drop me a post card so that we shall be sure to be in. My husband will be so glad to see you again.” “And you?” “I _have_ seen you again.” “Very well, I’ll drop you a line of warning. And how are you going home?” “By a clever and cheap combination of penny bus and halfpenny tram. Now, good-by, and thank you.” They lingered a moment in the shop entrance, warmth and coziness behind, the darkness and the thickening fog before. “I don’t like you’re going alone. The fog’s getting very thick.” “Please don’t worry about me; if the tram can’t get along I shall walk. Good-by, and, again, thank you.” Nodding in a friendly manner, she walked quickly away, leaving him irresolute. But he soon determined to follow her. “You really must let me see you home,” he said, as he caught up with her; “it’s going to be bad.” “So am I, and insist on having my own way. Don’t spoil it for me. I don’t often have my own way with anything or anybody.” Again she walked quickly away into the darkness. CHAPTER II ACACIA GROVE, Kennington, was once upon a time, and not so many years ago, the home of snug citizens, who loved to dwell on the borderland of town and country. It is a wide road of two-storied houses, all alike: three windows to the top floor; on the ground floor, two windows and a hall door, painted green and approached by three steep steps; a front garden, generally laid out in gravel with a circular bed of sooty shrubs in the center and a narrow border of straggling flowers along each side, spike-headed railings separating the garden from the pavement. Few of the gates are there that do not creak shrilly, calling aloud for oil. In one of these houses, distinguished only from its neighbors by its number, lodged the Reverend Edward Squire, occupying the front “parlor,” a small den at the back of the same, and the front bedroom and dressing room on the upper floor. The furniture throughout was plain, inoffensive, somber, entirely unhomelike; faded green curtains with yellow fringe hung at the parlor windows, by one of which Marian sat in the gloaming two days after her meeting with Maddison. The fire shed a flickering light over the room and on the weary face of her husband, who lay back asleep in a heavy horsehair armchair. She glanced at him now and then, each time comparing his commonplace features with those of George Maddison, her meeting with whom had stirred tumult in her already mutinous blood. Rousing himself at length, Squire looked at his watch.