Nigel stared at her in some bewilderment, then suddenly remembered another of the half-forgotten incidents of that night.
"Yes—I'm Smith," he said slowly. "I—I hope you got home all right in the taxi."
"Quite all right, thank you—and mother said I ought to be very grateful to you for taking such care of me."
There was something about this school-girl, who evidently took him for a man of her own class and position, which filled him with an infinite pain—a pain that was half a wistful pleasure. She stood before him in the path, a slim, unripe promise of womanhood, her long hair plaited simply on her back, her face glowing with health, her eyes bright and shy. He felt unfit, uncouth—and yet she did not seem to see anything strange in his appearance, sudden as it had been. He realised that now at last he was face to face with a human being between whom and him the barrier of his disgrace did not stand. This child did not exalt him for his evil story, neither did she despise him—his crime simply did not exist. Its hideousness was not tricked out with tinsel and scarlet, as by the cads in the bar—it was just invisible, put away. Strange words thrilled faintly into his mind—"the remission of sins."
"I'm glad you came to me at East Grinstead," said Tony, a little embarrassed by the long pause. "You see, mother never got my postcard, so no wonder there wasn't any one to meet me."
"I'm glad I was any use." He spoke stiffly, in a mortal fear lest, for some reason unspecified, her attitude of fragrant ignorance should collapse.
"Do you live near here?" she asked naïvely.
He hesitated. "Not very."
"I do—quite near. I think I must be going home now."
She held out her hand to say good-bye, when suddenly a shrill wailing scream rose from the field outside the wood.