blue now and then
revealed amid the grey rack. Two years ago he would have walked twenty
miles on a day like this, with eyes for nothing but the beauty and joy
of earth. Was he not--he suddenly asked himself--a wiser man now than
then? Did he not see into the truth of things; whereas, formerly, he
had seen only the deceptive surface? There should be some solace in
this reflection, if he took it well to heart.

Then his mind wandered away to Norbert Franks, who at this moment was
somewhere enjoying himself. This afternoon he might be calling upon the
Crosses. Why should that thought be disagreeable? It was, as he
perceived, not for the first time. If he pictured the artist chatting
side by side with Bertha Cross, something turned cold within him. By
the bye, it was rather a long time since he had seen Miss Cross; her
mother had been doing the shopping lately. She might come, perhaps, one
day this week; the chance gave him something to look forward to.

How often had he called himself a fool for paying heed to Bertha
Cross's visits?

CHAPTER 25

Again came springtime, and, as he stood behind the counter, Warburton
thought of all that was going on in the world he had forsaken.
Amusements for which he had never much cared haunted his fancy; feeling
himself shut out from the life of grace and intellect, he suffered a
sense of dishonour, as though his position resulted from some personal
baseness, some crime. He numbered the acquaintances he had dropped, and
pictured them as mentioning his name--if ever they did so--with cold
disapproval. Godfrey Sherwood had ceased to write; it was six months
since his last letter, in which he hinted a fear that the Irish
enterprise would have to be abandoned for lack of capital. Even Franks,
good fellow as he was, seemed to grow lukewarm in friendship. The
painter had an appointment for a Sunday in May at Will's lodgings, to
smoke and talk, but on the evening before he sent a telegram excusing
himself. Vexed, humiliated, Warburton wasted the Sunday morning, and
only after his midday meal yielded to the temptation of a brilliant
sky, which called him forth. Walking westward, with little heed to
distance or direction, he presently found himself at Kew; on the bridge
he lingered awhile, idly gazing at boats, and; as he thus leaned over
the parapet, the sound of a voice behind him fell startlingly upon his
ear. He turned, just in time to catch a glimpse of the features which
that v