in Kensington Gardens: not a contour of her
delicate progress had been blunted by the rasp of time. Five years ago
he had been the first to speak: now, must it be she who sometimes spoke
first? Seventeen she had told him had been her age, and they had kissed
in the dark midway between two lamps. No doubt she had been kissed
before. In that household of Trelawny Road anything else was
inconceivable. The gray streets of West Kensington in terrace upon
terrace stretched before him, and now as he recalled their barren stones
it seemed to him there was not one corner round which he might not
expect to meet her face to face. "_Michael, why do you make me love you
so?_" That was her voice. It was she who had asked him that question.
Never before this moment had he realized the import of her demand. Now,
when it was years too late to remedy, it came out of the past like an
accusation. He had answered it then with closer kisses. He had released
her then like a ruffled bird, secure that to-morrow and to-morrow and
to-morrow she would nestle to his arms for cherishing. And now if he
thought more of her life beneath that lurid stain he would go mad; if he
conjured to himself the vision of her now--had not Drake said she was
powdered and painted? To this had she come. And she was here in London.
Last week she had been seen. It was no nightmare. It was real, horrible
and real. He must go out again at once and find her. He must not sit
dreaming here, staring at the silly Thames, the smooth and imperturbable
Thames. He must plunge into that phantasmagoric city; he must fly from
haunt to haunt; he must drag the depths of every small hell; he must
find her to-night.

Michael rose, but on the instant of his decision his mother and Stella
drove up. Alan was no longer with them. He must have gone home to
Richmond. How normal sounded their voices from the pavement below.
Perhaps he would after all go down and greet them. They might wonder
otherwise if something had happened. Looking at himself as he passed the
mirror on his way down, he saw that he really was haggard. If he pleaded
a headache, his countenance would bear him out. In the end he shouted to
them over the balusters, and both of them wanted to come up with
remedies. He would not let them. The last thing his mood desired was the
tending of cool hands.

"I'm only fagged out," he told them. "I want a night's sleep."

Yet he knew how hard it would be to fall asleep. His brain was on