By degrees, as she progressed in this remembrance, the hand was raised, the late ecstatic look returned, and she became quite beautiful. Having so paused for a moment, silent, with a listening smile upon her face, she looked round and recalled herself.

“What poor fun you think me; don’t you, Mr. Wrayburn? You may well look tired of me. But it’s Saturday night, and I won’t detain you.”

“That is to say, Miss Wren,” observed Eugene, quite ready to profit by the hint, “you wish me to go?”

“Well, it’s Saturday night,” she returned, “and my child’s coming home. And my child is a troublesome bad child, and costs me a world of scolding. I would rather you didn’t see my child.”

“A doll?” said Eugene, not understanding, and looking for an explanation.