was still the afternoon, but he did not care to go to his room.
Leaving his knapsack at the station, he made his way to Westminster. He
wanted all things to be unchanged, so that between this evening and
their parting it might seem as if there had merely passed an ugly
dream; and timing himself, he reached the park just at their usual hour.

He waited till the gates were closed, but she did not come. All day
long at the back of his mind had been that fear, but he had driven it
away. She was ill, just a headache, or merely tired.

And the next evening he told himself the same. He dared not whisper to
himself anything else. And each succeeding evening again. He never
remembered how many. For a time he would sit watching the path by
which she had always come; and when the hour was long past he would
rise and walk towards the gate, look east and west, and then return.
One evening he stopped one of the park-keepers and questioned him.
Yes, the man remembered her quite well: the young lady with the fawn
gloves. She had come once or twice--maybe oftener, the park-keeper
could not be sure--and had waited. No, there had been nothing to show
that she was in any way upset. She had just sat there for a time, now
and then walking a little way and then coming back again, until the
closing hour, and then she had gone. He left his address with the
park-keeper. The man promised to let him know if he ever saw her there
again.

Sometimes, instead of the park, he would haunt the mean streets about
Lisson Grove and far beyond the other side of the Edgware Road, pacing
them till night fell. But he never found her.

He wondered, beating against the bars of his poverty, if money would
have helped him. But the grim, endless city, hiding its million
secrets, seemed to mock the thought. A few pounds he had scraped
together he spent in advertisements; but he expected no response, and
none came. It was not likely she would see them.

And so after a time the park, and even the streets round about it,
became hateful to him; and he moved away to another part of London,
hoping to forget. But he never quite succeeded. Always it would come
back to him when he was not thinking: the broad, quiet walk with its
prim trees and gay beds of flowers. And always he would see her seated
there, framed by the fading light. At least, that much of her: the
little spiritual face, and the brown shoes pointing downwards, and
between them the li