Fan thrust the flask away, and then putting her hand to her forehead, cried out:
“Oh, what's this on my head?”
“Only a bit of sticking-plaster where you hit yourself against the table, my dear.”
Then she smoothed out Fan's broken hat, and with a wet sponge cleaned the bloodstains from her gown, and finally opening the door and with the bag in her hand, she accompanied the girl out.
Once in the cold keen air Fan began to recover strength and confidence, but she was still too weak to walk fast, and when they had got to the long road where the benches were, she was compelled to sit down and rest for some time.
“Where are you going after I leave you at the station?” asked the woman.
“To London—to Westbourne Park.”
“And then?”
“I don't know—I can't think. Oh, please leave me here!”
“No, my dear, I'll see you in your train at the station.”