"It is very good of you to sympathise with me," May murmured gratefully. "So few people do. They look at my clothes, and decide that anybody dressed as I am, and living in Victoria Square, _must_ be happy. 'Lucky Mrs. Burnside!' they call me." He remembered how enviable, in the early days of their acquaintance, May had seemed to him, and thought how mistaken are the judgments of this world. A great pity swelled his heart as she said "Good-bye"; and he tramped back to his dreary rooms doubly depressed, both on her account and his own. How he longed to be able to free her from her shackles, and offer her a happy home, independent of Miss Waller! * * * * * "I must say, May, nobody would think you were going to London to enjoy yourself. Do, for goodness' sake, try to look a little more cheerful!" said Miss Waller sharply, as they took their seats in a reserved first-class carriage on the Monday. Mr. Lang, to May's great relief, had returned to town three days before, so they were spared his company. "You are the most ungrateful girl I ever knew." [Illustration: "Do try to look a little more cheerful!"] "I'm sorry you think so, aunt, but----" "It would serve you right if I washed my hands of you entirely," continued the irate spinster. "But I am too kind-hearted; my sense of duty restrains me. I should be better off now, if I'd been more selfish and less considerate for others. But I'm well aware it's useless to expect gratitude in _this_ world." And, with a heartfelt sigh for the wickedness of this generation, Miss Waller arranged the air-cushion more comfortably at her back, and, placing her daintily shod feet on the opposite seat, commenced to study a newspaper. May sat watching the deep-green summer landscape flit by, with pretty much the same feelings as a convict might experience while going down to Portland guarded by warders. The knowledge that Mr. Lang awaited them at the end of the journey took all the colour out of the blue sky; and the sleek cattle standing knee-deep in water beneath the willows, seemed to mock her by their animal freedom from care. For herself, she cared little; but there was Doris to consider, and the thought of her helpless child harassed her throughout that miserable journey. CHAPTER VIII. _The Recluse._ Enforced idleness is, to an active mind, the greatest misery conceivable. Harold Inglis had in him a vast capacity for work, and therefore found it doubly bitter to have to spend his days lounging about, waiting for the patients who never came. He was afraid to go out lest he should miss a summons, and unable to sit down to read or write, so continually did he find himself listening for a ring at the bell and Ann's voice announcing a patient. He could not even tranquillise himself with tobacco, for he had given up smoking on account of the expense.