Even in her anger against him, the knowledge of his forgiving disposition, of the sincerity of his love, was an unavowed support.

She knew he could not utterly desert her; when some day he sought a reconciliation, the renewal of conflict between his pride and her own would, she felt, supply her with new courage.
Early one Saturday afternoon she was standing by the windows, partly from heavy idleness of thought, partly on the chance that Kirkwood might go by, when a young, well-dressed man, who happened to be passing at a slow walk, turned his head and looked at her.

He went on, but in a few moments Clara, who had moved back into the shop, saw him enter and come forwards.

He took a seat at the counter and ordered a luncheon.
Clara waited upon him with her customary cold reserve, and he made no remark until she returned him change out of the coin he offered.
Then he said with an apologetic smile: 'We are old acquaintances, Miss Hewett, but I'm afraid you've forgotten me.' Clara regarded him in astonishment.

His age seemed to be something short of thirty; he had a long, grave, intelligent face, smiled enigmatically, spoke in a rather slow voice.