"Dear little Rita," he said, as he held her hand outside the door of the block of flats in Kensington. "Dear child, I'm so glad."
It was a clear night and the clocks were striking twelve.
"And I'm glad, too," she answered,—"Gilbert!"
He was soon at his club, had paid the chauffeur and dismissed him. There was no one he wanted to talk to in either of the smoking rooms, and so, after a final peg he went upstairs to bed. He was quite peaceful and calm in mind, very placidly happy and pleased.
To-morrow he would go home to Mary.
He said his prayers, begging God to make this strange and sweet friendship that had come into his life of value to him and to his little friend, might it always be fine and pure!
So he got into bed and a pleasant drowsiness stole over him; he had a sense of great virtue and peace. All was well with his soul.
"Dear little Rita," were the words he murmured as he fell asleep and lay tranquil in yet another phase of his poisoned life.
No dreams disturbed his sleep. No premonition came to tell him whither he had set his steps or whither they would lead him.
A mile or two away there was a nameless grave of shame, within a citadel where "pale Anguish keeps the gate and the Warder is Despair."