For a week he had met her at the same place and followed her on her way down Victoria Street. Then one night, just as they came under the lights of Vauxhall Clock tower, he spoke to her.
"Doing anything to-night?" he said. "Shall we dine together?"
She turned from him in a white heat of anger, more with herself than with him, though that, of course, it was not given him to know. But he caught a glimpse of her face and read his answer, and since he was in reality a nice boy, and insult had been the last thought in his mind, he took off his hat quickly and apologized.
"I am sure I beg your pardon," he said; "I can see that I have made a mistake."
Joan did not answer him, she had moved quickly away in the direction of Digby Street, but as she passed by the dingy houses she knew that he was not following any more, and she felt the hot, hard lump in her throat which is so difficult to swallow. She had wanted to go to dinner with him, she had wanted to, that was the thought that mocked at her all night.
It was one evening about a fortnight after that episode that Rose called Joan into her room on their way upstairs.
"I want to talk to you," she said, closing the door behind them. "Has Miss Nigel spoken yet?"
"To me?" asked Joan; "what about?"
"I see, then, she hasn't," Rose answered, "but she will soon. Did you notice that the night before last Miss Wembly, who sits at the next table to ours, had a guest to dinner?"
"No," Joan admitted; "but why? What has it got to do with me?"