noticed before how vacuous this fellow was--with
his talk of politics, and racing, of this ass and that ass--subjects
hitherto of primary importance! And, stopping suddenly, he drawled out:

"Look here, old chap, you go on; see you at the club--presently."

"Why? What's up?"

With his lazy smile, Summerhay answered:

"'There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,'" and turned on his
heel.

When his friend had disappeared, he resumed his journey toward Bury
Street. He passed his boot shop, where, for some time, he had been
meaning to order two pairs, and went by thinking: 'I wonder where SHE
goes for things.' Her figure came to him so vividly--sitting back in
that corner, or standing by the cab, her hand in his. The blood rushed
up in his cheeks. She had been scented like flowers, and--and a rainy
wind! He stood still before a plate-glass window, in confusion, and
suddenly muttered aloud: "Damn it! I believe I am!" An old gentleman,
passing, turned so suddenly, to see what he was, that he ricked his neck.

But Summerhay still stood, not taking in at all the reflected image of
his frowning, rueful face, and of the cigar extinct between his lips.
Then he shook his head vigorously and walked on. He walked faster, his
mind blank, as it is sometimes for a short space after a piece of
sell-revelation that has come too soon for adjustment or even quite for
understanding. And when he began to think, it was irritably and at
random. He had come to Bury Street, and, while he passed up it, felt a
queer, weak sensation down the back of his legs. No flower-boxes this
year broke the plain front of Winton's house, and nothing whatever but
its number and the quickened beating of his heart marked it out for
Summerhay from any other dwelling. The moment he turned into Jermyn
Street, that beating of the heart subsided, and he felt suddenly morose.
He entered his club at the top of St. James' Street and passed at once
into the least used room. This was the library; and going to the French
section, he took down "The Three Musketeers" and seated himself in a
window, with his back to anyone who might come in. He had taken
this--his favourite romance, feeling in want of warmth and companionship;
but he did not read. From where he sat he could throw a stone to where
she was sitting perhaps; except for walls he could almost reach her with
his voice, could certainly see her. This was imbecile! A woman he had
only met