im poignant memories of
crocus-starred lawns, of trim beds of hyacinths, of the song of birds,
of the perfume of drooping lilac. Grim and motionless, as a figure of
fate, Wingrave looked down from his window, with cold, yet discerning
eyes. He was still an alien, a denizen in another world from that which
flowed so smoothly and pleasantly below. It was something to which he
did not belong, which he doubted, indeed, if ever again he could enter.
He had no part in it, no share in that vigorous life, whose throbbings
he could dimly feel, though his own heart was beating to a slower and a
very different tune. They were his fellows in name only. Between him and
them stood the judgment of--Rocke!

The evil chances of the world are many! It was whilst his thoughts
traveled in this fashion that the electric landaulette of Lady Ruth
Barrington glided round the corner from St. James' Street, and joined
in the throng of vehicles slowly making their way down Piccadilly. His
attention was attracted first by the white and spotless liveries of the
servants--the form of locomotion itself was almost new to him. Then he
saw the woman who leaned back amongst the cushions. She was elegantly
dressed; she wore no veil; she did not look a day more than thirty.
She was attractive, from the tips of her patent shoes, to the white
bow which floated on the top of her lace parasol; a perfectly dressed,
perfectly turned out woman. She had, too, the lazy confident air of
a woman sure of herself and her friends. She knew nothing of the look
which flashed down upon her from the window overhead.

Wingrave turned away with a little gasp; a half-stifled exclamation had
crept out from between his teeth. His cheeks seemed paler than ever, and
his eyes unnaturally bright. Nevertheless, he was completely master of
himself. On the table was a large deed box of papers, which Rocke had
left for his inspection. From its recesses he drew out a smaller box,
unlocked it with a key from his chain, and emptied its sole contents--a
small packet of letters--upon the table. He counted them one by one.
They were all there--and on top a photograph. A breath of half-forgotten
perfume stole out into the room. He opened one of the letters, and its
few passionate words came back to his memory, linked with a hundred
other recollections, the desire of her eyes, of her lips raised for his,
the caressing touch of her fingers. He found himself wondering, in an
impersonal sort of w