Around her neck was a little gold chain. They laughed and talked and stared about them. The tired woman looked up in inquiring silence at Ann Veronica’s diffident entry. Poor soul! she nearly died when she heard he had robbed his master; and it might have been well if she had done so, for she never afterwards recovered her reason. “Miserable bounder,” he murmured. ‘Beg pardon, miss, but I’m told as how—’ She broke off, her eyes widening, her jaw dropping open. It was the beginning of June. The haste to send her upon her way now had but one interpretation—the recognition of his own immediate danger, the fear that if this tender association continued, he would end in offering her a calamity quite as impossible as that which had happened—the love of a man who was in all probability older than her father! The hurt was no less intensive because it was so ridiculous. It was long and narrow, a well-lit, wellventilated, quiet gallery of small tables and sinks, pervaded by a thin smell of methylated spirit and of a mitigated and sterilized organic decay. In the present case it did not matter, as there was no one else within earshot. Please don’t tell anyone, mister. He stood back and held her shoulders.
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