Such a bidder was to
hand in the person of a retired bookmaker, a somewhat greasy old
gentleman, but exceedingly rich and undoubtedly fond of her.
Miss Devine, having made up her mind that the thing had got to be
done, was anxious that it should be done quickly. And here it was
that the stranger's ridiculous opinion of her not only irritated but
inconvenienced her. Under the very eyes of a person--however
foolish--convinced that you are possessed of all the highest
attributes of your sex, it is difficult to behave as though actuated
by only the basest motives. A dozen times had Miss Devine determined
to end the matter by formal acceptance of her elderly admirer's large
and flabby hand, and a dozen times--the vision intervening of the
stranger's grave, believing eyes--had Miss Devine refused decided
answer. The stranger would one day depart. Indeed, he had told her
himself, he was but a passing traveller. When he was gone it would be
easier. So she thought at the time.
One afternoon the stranger entered the room where she was standing by
the window, looking out upon the bare branches of the trees in
Bloomsbury Square. She remembered afterwards, it was just such
another foggy afternoon as the afternoon of the stranger's arrival
three months before. No one else was in the room.
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