Vexed, humiliated, Warburton wasted the Sunday morning, and only after his midday meal yielded to the temptation of a brilliant sky, which called him forth.

Walking westward, with little heed to distance or direction, he presently found himself at Kew; on the bridge he lingered awhile, idly gazing at boats, and; as he thus leaned over the parapet, the sound of a voice behind him fell startlingly upon his ear.

He turned, just in time to catch a glimpse of the features which that voice had brought before his mind's eye, Bertha Cross was passing, with her mother.

Probably they had not seen him.

And even if they had, if they had recognised him--did he flatter himself that the Crosses would give any sign in public of knowing their grocer?
With his eyes on the graceful figure of Bertha, he slowly followed.