When he saw the white-faced restless Flora drifting like a lost thing along the road he put his pipe in his pocket and called out "Good morning, Miss Smith" in a tone of amazing happiness.

She, with one foot in life and the other in a nightmare, was at the same time inert and unstable, and very much at the mercy of sudden impulses.

She swerved, came distractedly right up to the gate and looking straight into his eyes: "I am not Miss Smith.

That's not my name.

Don't call me by it." She was shaking as if in a passion.