She looked up, and recognized Mr. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. It was still raining heavily, and profoundly dark. Lord Charvill champed upon an invisible bit for a moment or two, closing the gap between himself and the girl, and muttering the name to himself in an overwrought sort of way. At a turn in the road, he perceived Winifred looking anxiously towards him, and when she discovered him, she waved her hand. “No one asks you to care for them. It's of no use. But this time she wanted nothing for herself: she wanted something for Hoddy—success. The air was crisp and dry.
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