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“I wonder when I’ll walk along this street again?” she thought, and ascended the marble steps, hiding all trace of past emotion.

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“The master wished to speak to you when you returned,” the attendant at the door said to her when he answered it.

Rosalie crossed the hall, feeling that vague sense of satisfaction that generally accompanies honesty, and which at times appears so poor a recompense.

This time on knocking she waited for the answer. When it came she opened the door and entered.

Mr. Barringcourt was in the act of filing papers, and generally tidying up the littered table.

“You are quite punctual,” said he. “And what is more, astoundingly honest.”

“You did not expect I should return, then?”

“No! Honestly speaking, I thought I had seen the last of you.”

She shook her head.

“Gratitude brought me back at the expense of inclination.”

“You should have yielded to temptation, and run away.”

“Perhaps my action in returning was not quite so commendable as you think. I was much tempted to run away, and then—”