Two years ago (he had keen, watchful eyes, this man) he had fancied that the homely girl had a dream, as most women have, of love and marriage: she had put it aside, he thought, forever; it was too expensive a luxury; she had to begin the life-long battle for bread and butter.

Her dream had been real and pure, perhaps; for she accepted no sham love in its place: if it had left an empty hunger in her heart, she had not tried to fill it.

Well, well, it was the old story.

Yet he looked after her kindly as he thought of it; as some people look sorrowfully at children, going back to their own childhood.

For a moment he half relented in his purpose, thinking, perhaps, her work for life was hard enough.