That very evening, after he was gone, Gladys sat by the fire in her spacious drawing-room, turning upon her third finger the diamond ring George Fordyce had transferred from his own hand to hers, whispering as he did so that she should soon have one worthier of her. Watching the flashing of the stone in the gleaming firelight, she wondered to see tears, matching the diamonds in brilliance, falling on her gown. She did not understand these tears; she did not think herself unhappy, though she felt none of that passionate, trembling joy which happy love, as she had heard and read of it, is entitled to feel. She realised that she had taken a great and important step in life, and that it seemed to weigh upon her, that was all. In her loneliness she longed passionately for some sympathetic soul to lean upon. Miss Peck had gone back to the fen country to see a dying friend, and for some days she had heard nothing of Teen, who was pursuing in Glasgow her search for the lost and mysterious Liz. In the midst of the strange reverie she heard footsteps on the stair, and presently a knock came to the door. As it was opened, the silver chimes of the old brass clock rang seven.
'Mr. Hepburn.'
Gladys sprang up, struck by the familiar name, yet not expecting to behold her old companion in the flesh, and there he was, standing modestly, yet with so much manliness and courage in his bearing, that she could not forbear a little cry of welcome as she ran to him with outstretched hands. It seemed as if her prayer for the sympathy of one who understood her was answered far beyond any hope or expectations she had cherished regarding it.
'Oh, Walter, I am so very glad to see you! It is so good of you to come. I have so often wished to see you here. Come away, come away!'
The accepted lover, at that moment being whirled back by express train to Glasgow, would not have approved of those warm words, nor of the light shining all over the girl's sweet face as she uttered them. But he would have been compelled to admit that in Gladys's old companion of the slums he had no mean rival. The St. Vincent Street tailor had done his duty by his eccentric customer, and not only given him value for his money, but converted him, so far as outward appearance goes, into a new man. Philosophers and cynics have from time to time had their fling at the tyranny of clothes, but it still remains an undisputed fact that a well-dressed man is always much more comfortable and self-respecting than an ill-dressed one. When Walter Hepburn beheld the new man the tailor had turned out, a strange change came over him, and he saw in himself possibilities hitherto undreamed of. He realised for the first time that he looked fitter than most men to win a woman's approval, and I am quite safe in saying that Gladys owed this totally unlooked-for visit entirely to the St. Vincent Street tailor.
'So very glad to see you,' she repeated, and she thought it no treachery to her absent lover to keep hold of the hand she had taken in greeting. 'And looking so nice and so handsome! Oh, Walter, now I am no longer unhappy about you, for I see you have awakened at last to a sense of what you ought to be.'
It was a tribute to clothes, but it sank with unalloyed sweetness into the young man's heart.
'You are very kind to me, Gladys, and I do not deserve any such welcome. I was afraid, indeed, that you might refuse to see me, as you would be perfectly justified in doing.'
'Oh, Walter,' she said reproachfully, 'how dare you say such a thing? Refuse to see you, indeed! Do sit down and tell me everything. Do you know, it is just my dinner hour, and you shall dine with me; and how delightful that will be. I thought of sending down to say I didn't wish any dinner, it is so lonely eating alone.'
'Where is the lady who lives with you? You had a lady, hadn't you?'