“I am so glad to have met you, Mr. Kent,” she said; “I want to speak to you. Can you walk a little way with me?”
“Of course, as long as you like. What is the matter? You are not yourself.”
“No. I have been upset, so upset; you would hardly think it. Come and I will tell you.”
They crossed the road and went on down Lower Sloane Street.
“It's about Jack—Jack, the model, you remember. He has been run over! Oh, it's horrible!”
“And you are going to him?” asked Kent, noticing for the first time a little basket hanging over her arm. “Give me that,” he added, taking the basket, which she out of habit surrendered to him. “And these are jellies and what not for him?”
“Yes. Will you come with me and see him, see what can be done for him, rather? His mother is so harsh, so stupid.”
“How did you come to hear of the accident?”
Winifred's cheek paled a little and she turned her head from him.
“I saw it myself. Oh, I shall never, never forget it! just outside Sloane Square station; I was coming home, yesterday. The ground was just as slippery as it is now. Oh, how can I tell you! It makes me shudder to think of it!”