act of common sense would be a plunge, death and darkness in reality, not this horrible pretence.
And then she was walking along towards the station with Tom Dawson. Neither had spoken of the strangeness of meeting there. They were walking silently side by side. Neither spoke, but as they neared the station their steps grew slower and slower. In the light of a lamp she saw his face with sudden clearness.
"You too," she thought. "No, not you. I can bear it, but not you. Tom's moody. Tom's this and that"—came back to her in Ella s voice, with its shallow, pleasant little clang. They walked, thinking he of her face as he had seen it before she saw him, she of him. Her heart was beating with sudden sympathy, but she was living. For him, every day, Ella's commonplaces—Ella's affection.
Every day to work hard at distasteful work, for an income barely sufficient for Ella's little fancies. How had it ever happened? With his face, with his mind!
On the short journey home they hardly looked at each other or spoke, but the few necessary words were spoken in the voices of loving friends.
He stopped at the garden gate of her lodgings.
"Is Miss Grey at home?"
"No, there is no light in our room."
And he followed her in, and stood close at her side while she lit the lamp. She thought she heard his heart beating.
Her common sense said "Speak—say anything—about Ella—about to-morrow, or yesterday, or the day before."
But she stood by him, motionless and trembling.
Then her common sense made a fresh effort.
"Speak"—it commanded: for the silence was drawing them closer each moment.
