she runs after me to talk about
men. I fancy she must have carried on pretty well with some one, for
she loves talking about _him_, and is full of mysterious allusions."

The romance of the sudden introduction of this girl into the
landscape took him by the throat. He saw himself walking with this
dying girl in the beauty of blue mountains toppling into blue skies,
and reflected in bluer seas; he sat with her beneath the palm-trees;
palms spread their fan-like leaves upon sky and sea, and in the rich
green of their leaves oranges grew to deep, and lemons to paler,
gold; and he dreamed that the knowledge that the object of his love
was transitory, would make his love perfect and pure. Now in his
solitude, with no object to break it, this desire for love in death
haunted in his mind. It rose unbidden, like a melody, stealing forth
and surprising him in unexpected moments. Often he asked himself why
he did not pack up his portmanteau and rush away; and he was only
deterred by the apparent senselessness of the thought. "What slaves
we are of habit! Why more stupid to go than to remain?"

Soon after, he received another letter from Mrs. Byril. He glanced
through it eagerly for some mention of the girl. Whatever there was
of sweetness and goodness in Mike's nature was reflected in his eyes
(soft violet eyes, in which tenderness dwelt), whatever there was of
evil was written in the lips and chin (puckered lips and goat-like
chin), the long neck and tiny head accentuating the resemblance.

Now his being was concentrated in the eyes as a landscape is
sometimes in a piece of sky. He read: "She told me that she had been
once to see her lover in the Temple." It was then Lily. He turned to
Mrs. Byril's first letter, and saw Lily in every line of the
description. Should he go to her? Of course ... When? At once! Should
it not prove to be Lily? ... He did not care ... He must go, and in
half an hour he touched the swiftly trotting mare with the whip and
glanced at his watch. "I shall just do it." The hedges passed behind,
and the wintry prospects were unfolded and folded away. But as he
approached the station, a rumble and then a rattle came out of the
valley, and though he lashed the mare into a gallop, he arrived only
in time to see a vanishing cloud of steam.

The next train did not reach London till long after the mail had left
Charing Cross.

It froze hard during the night, and next morning his feet chilled in
his thin shoe