At the open door stood a young man in a rich garb with a mask on his face, who was encouraging the mob by words and gestures. He was really very proud of her, and extraordinarily angry and resentful at the innocent and audacious selfreliance that seemed to intimate her sense of absolute independence of him, her absolute security without him. It was denied him, for as he closed his eyes—though but for an instant—the whole scene of his former visit to the place rose before him. Saviour's Stairs. . Now I am sorry to cross you in anything you have set your heart upon, but I regret to say—” “H’m,” he reflected, and crossed out the last four words.
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