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‘Oh, George!’ she said, with the same sad, half-ironical smile, allowing herself to be kissed.

‘Don’t you remember me?’ said Edith, coming forward. ‘I’m George’s wife; I used to be Edith Pollett.’

‘Oh, yes!’ Daisy put out her hand.

They all three looked at her, and the women noticed the elegance of her simple dress. She was no longer the merry girl they had known, but a tall, dignified woman, and her great blue eyes were very grave. They were rather afraid of her; but Mrs Griffith made an effort to be cordial and at the same time familiar.

‘Fancy you being a real lady!’ she said.

Daisy smiled again.

‘Where’s father?’ she asked.

‘In the next room.’ They moved towards the door and entered. Old Griffith rose as he saw his daughter, but he did not come towards her. She looked at him a moment, then turned to the others.

‘Please leave me alone with father for a few minutes.’

They did not want to, knowing that their presence would restrain him; but Daisy looked at them so firmly that they were obliged to obey. She closed the door behind them.

‘Father!’ she said, turning towards him.

‘They made me write the letter,’ he said hoarsely.

‘I thought so,’ she said. ‘Won’t you kiss me?’

He stepped back as if in replusion. She looked at him with her beautiful eyes full of tears.

‘I’m so sorry I’ve made you unhappy. But I’ve been unhappy too–oh, you don’t know what I’ve gone through!… Won’t you forgive me?’

‘I didn’t write the letter,’ he repeated hoarsely; ‘they stood over me and made me.’

Her lips trembled, but with an effort she commanded herself. They looked at one another steadily, it seemed for a very long time; in his eyes was the look of a hunted beast…. At last she turned away without saying anything more, and left him.

In the next room the three were anxiously waiting. She contemplated them a moment, and then, sitting down, asked about the affairs. They explained how things were.

‘I talked to my husband about it,’ she said; ‘he’s proposed to make you an allowance so that you can retire from business.’

‘Oh, that’s Sir Herbert all over,’ said Mrs Griffith, greasily–she knew nothing about him but his name!

‘How much do you think you could live on?’ asked Daisy.

Mrs Griffith looked at George and then at Edith. What should they ask? Edith and George exchanged a glance; they were in agonies lest Mrs Griffith should demand too little.

‘Well,’ said that lady, at last, with a little cough of uncertainty, ‘in our best years we used to make four pounds a week out of the business–didn’t we, George?’

‘Quite that!’ answered he and his wife, in a breath.

‘Then, shall I tell my husband that if he allows you five pounds a week you will be able to live comfortably?’

‘Oh, that’s very handsome!’ said Mrs Griffith.

‘Very well,’ said Daisy, getting up.

‘You’re not going?’ cried her mother.

‘Yes.’

‘Well, that is hard. After not seeing you all these years. But you know best, of course!’

‘There’s no train up to London for two hours yet,’ said George.

‘No; I want to take a walk through Blackstable.’

‘Oh, you’d better drive, in your position.’

‘I prefer to walk.’

‘Shall George come with you?’

‘I prefer to walk alone.’

Then Mrs Griffith again enveloped her daughter in her arms, and told her she had always loved her and that she was her only daughter; after which, Daisy allowed herself to be embraced by her brother and his wife. Finally they shut the door on her and watched her from the window walk slowly down the High Street.

‘If you’d asked it, I believe she’d have gone up to six quid a week,’ said George.

XV

Daisy walked down the High Street slowly, looking at the houses she remembered, and her lips quivered a little; at every step smells blew across to her full of memories–the smell of a tannery, the blood smell of a butcher’s shop, the sea-odour from a shop of fishermen’s clothes…. At last she came on to the beach, and in the darkening November day she looked at the booths she knew so well, the boats drawn up for the winter, whose names she knew, whose owners she had known from her childhood; she noticed the new villas built in her absence. And she looked at the grey sea; a sob burst from her; but she was very strong, and at once she recovered herself. She turned back and slowly walked up the High Street again to the station. The lamps were lighted now, and the street looked as it had looked in her memory through the years; between the ‘Green Dragon’ and the ‘Duke of Kent’ were the same groups of men–farmers, townsfolk, fishermen–talking in the glare of the rival inns, and they stared at her curiously as she passed, a tall figure, closely veiled. She looked at the well-remembered shops, the stationery shop with its old-fashioned, fly-blown knick-knacks, the milliner’s with cheap, gaudy hats, the little tailor’s with his antiquated fashion plates. At last she came to the station, and sat in the waiting-room, her heart full of infinite sadness–the terrible sadness of the past….

And she could not shake it off in the train; she could only just keep back the tears.

At Victoria she took a cab and finally reached home. The servants said her husband was in his study.

‘Hulloa!’ he said. ‘I didn’t expect you to-night.’

‘I couldn’t stay; it was awful.’ Then she went up to him and looked into his eyes. ‘You do love me, Herbert, don’t you?’ she said, her voice suddenly breaking. ‘I want your love so badly.’

‘I love you with all my heart!’ he said, putting his arms round her.

But she could restrain herself no longer; the strong arms seemed to take away the rest of her strength, and she burst into tears.

‘I will try and be a good wife to you, Herbert,’ she said, as he kissed them away.