 rather more familiar. He stayed talking for nearly an
hour, chiefly of the theatre. Casually he mentioned that Grace Rudd had got her
engagement - only a little part in a farce. Suppose Clara came to see her play
some evening? Might he take her? He could at any time have places in the
dress-circle.
    Clara accepted the invitation. She did so without consulting Mrs. Tubbs, and
when it became necessary to ask for the evening's freedom, difficulties were
made. »Very well,« said Clara, in a tone she had never yet used to her employer,
»then I shall leave you.« She spoke without a moment's reflection; something
independent of her will seemed to direct her in speech and act. Mrs. Tubbs
yielded.
    Clara had not yet been able to obtain the dress she wished for. Her savings,
however, were sufficient for the purchase of a few accessories, which made her,
she considered, not unpresentable. Scawthorne was to have a cab waiting for her
at a little distance from the luncheon-bar. It was now June, and at the hour of
their meeting still broad daylight, but Clara cared nothing for the chance that
acquaintances might see her; nay, she had a reckless desire that Sidney Kirkwood
might pass just at this moment. She noticed no one whom she knew, however; but
just as the cab was turning into Pentonville Road, Scawthorne drew her attention
to a person on the pavement.
    »You see that old fellow,« he said. »Would you believe that he is very
wealthy?«
    Clara had just time to perceive an old man with white hair, dressed as a
mechanic.
    »But I know him,« she replied. »His name's Snowdon.«
    »So it is. How do you come to know him?« Scawthorne inquired with interest.
    She explained.
    »Better not say anything about it,« remarked her companion. »He's an
eccentric chap. I happen to know his affairs in the way of business. I oughtn't
to have told secrets, but I can trust you.«
    A gentle emphasis on the last word, and a smile of more than usual intimacy.
But his manner was, and remained through the evening, respectful almost to
exaggeration. Clara seemed scarcely conscious of his presence, save in the act
of listening to what he said. She never met his look, never smiled. From
entering the theatre to leaving it, she had a high flush on her face. Impossible
to recognise her friend
