A man walking in the road came towards her.
"I see that you recognise me, Miss Fountain!"
The ambiguous voice—the dark, delicate face—the clumsy gait—she knew them all. But—she stared in utter astonishment. The man who addressed her wore a short round coat and soft hat; a new beard covered his chin; his flannel shirt was loosely tied at the throat by a silk handkerchief. And over all the same air of personal slovenliness and ill-breeding.
"You didn't expect to see me in this dress, Miss Fountain? Let me walk a few steps with you, if I may. You perhaps hadn't heard that I had left the Jesuits—and ceased indeed to be a Catholic."
Her mind whirled, as she recognised the scholastic. She saw the study at
Bannisdale—and Helbeck bending over her.
"No, indeed—I had not heard," she stammered, as they walked on. "Was it long ago?"
"Only a couple of months. The crisis came in January——"
And he broke out into a flood of autobiography. Already at Bannisdale he had been in confusion of mind—the voices of art and liberty calling to him each hour more loudly—his loyalty to Helbeck, to his boyish ideals, to his Jesuit training, holding him back.
"I believe, Miss Fountain"—the colour rushed into his womanish cheek—"you overheard us that evening—you know what I owe to that admirable, that extraordinary man. May I be frank? We have both been through deep waters!"
The girl's face grew rigid. Involuntarily she put a wider space between herself and him. But he did not notice.