When Barry Malleson left the house of Mrs. Bradley he left it with his head in a rose-cloud. The woman had fascinated him. Plainly and cheaply garbed as he had seen her, plain and cheap as her environment was, devoid, as she must be, of all social standing and of all the social graces, she had, nevertheless, fascinated him. Not that he permitted himself, under the circumstances, to think of making love to her; that would have been incongruous and inexcusable. But she had surrounded him with an atmosphere pervaded and enriched by her own personality, and from that atmosphere he could not, nor did he try to, escape.
He did not overtake the Reverend Mr. Farrar on his way back to the city, but he did overtake Miss Chichester. She was walking along hurriedly in an unattractive suburb; she was alone, and dusk was falling, and the only decent thing for him to do was to pull up to the curb and ask her to ride into the city. She was not loath to accept his invitation. It pleased her, not alone because the acceptance of it would help her on her way, but because also it would give her, for a brief time, the exclusive companionship of Barry Malleson. There was no just reason why Miss Chichester should not desire the companionship of Barry, nor why she was not entitled to it. They had known each other from childhood. She was a member of his social set; she belonged to the church which he attended; she was not far from his own age; she was fairly prepossessing in appearance; and she was, so far as any romantic connection was concerned, entirely unattached. More-
