Tilly read more slowly and yet more slowly, and then stopped reading altogether. Then she rose slowly to her feet, crossed the room, and stood gazing into the fire. She did not know what begging the question meant, but she had other food for reflection. Connie Carmyle was right. When it comes to a pinch, letters are useless things, and being useless are, more often than not, dangerous.
On the mantelpiece stood two framed photographs--one of Tilly, the other of Dicky. The original of the first addressed the second.
"I wish you had n't put in that last bit, Dicky dear ... 'Abandon my demands' ... 'A little adventuress.' ... That's what I am, when all is said and done. A little adventuress, trying to better herself! Lady Adela is right and we were wrong. What else could you think of me, Dicky, once you married me and found me out--a silly, hysterical, common little chit? ... There's your letter, dear. I dare say I could have got quite a lot for it in a court of law; but some adventuresses are n't up to sample. They have no spirit."
Dicky's much-read epistle dropped into the flames, and Tilly turned with sudden briskness from her lover's photograph to her own.
"As for you, Tilly Welwyn," she observed severely, "just remember that you are only an ordinary, hard-working, matter-of-fact little London work-girl. You can put all fancy notions about fairy princes and happy-ever-after out of your head. You are getting a big girl now, you know. You must live your life and go your own way; and sometimes--only sometimes, mind!--when you are feeling downhearted and up against it, I'll allow you to let your thoughts go back to the best man that ever walked; and although you may cry a bit, you will thank God you did not spoil his life by marrying him."
The doors leading onto the landing creaked, and Amelia peeped cautiously in. Tilly started guiltily. None of us like to be caught talking to ourselves. The habit savours of exclusiveness--and other things.
"Tilly dear," said little 'Melia listlessly, "the new lodger has come with his luggage. Could you give him a hand with it? Everybody is out, and it's rather heavy for me."
"All right," said Tilly readily. "I'll be down in half a minute."
Amelia disappeared, leaving the doors open; and Tilly hastily assumed a business-like yet hospitable expression, suitable for the welcoming of a second-floor.
"One thing more, though, my girl," she remarked sternly, releasing her features for a moment in order to address her own reflection in the overmantle mirror. "Just remember that this will require a real effort. It's all very well to feel heroic just now, and talk about giving him up, and living your own life, and so on; but it won't be easy. You will have to put your back into it. Supposing you meet him in the street one day? What then? Can you walk past him? You know you are as weak as water where he is concerned. What are you going to do about it?"