sat like
one who waits, and the waiting was for she knew not what. There was
once more to be a great change in her life, but of what kind she could
not foresee. She wished her suffering had been more acute; her only
relative was dying, yet no tear would come to her eyes; it was
heartless, and to weep would have brought relief to her. She could only
sit and wait.

When Waymark came, on the evening of the next day, he heard that all
was over. Ida saw him, but only for a few minutes. In going away, he
paused by the gates of the silent house.

"The slums have avenged themselves," he said to himself sadly, "though
late."

CHAPTER XXXV

HOUSE-WARMING

On a Sunday afternoon in October, when Abraham Woodstock had lain in
his grave for three months, Waymark met Julian Casti by appointment in
Sloane Square, and they set forth together on a journey to Peckham.
They were going thither by invitation, and, to judge from the laughter
which accompanied their talk, their visit was likely to afford them
entertainment. The merriment on Julian's side was not very natural; he
looked indeed too ill to enjoy mirth of any kind. As they stood in the
Square, waiting for an omnibus, he kept glancing uneasily about him,
especially in the direction whence they had come. It had the appearance
of a habit, but before they had stood much more than a minute, he
started and exclaimed in a low voice to his companion--

"I told you so. She is just behind there. She has come round by the
back streets, just to see if I'd told her the truth."

Waymark glanced back and shrugged his shoulders.

"Pooh! Never mind," he said. "You're used to it."

"Used to it! Yes," Julian returned, his face flushing suddenly a deep
red, the effect of extraordinary excitement; "and it is driving me mad."

Then, after a fit of coughing--

"She found my poem last night, and burnt it."

"Burnt it?"

"Yes; simply because she could not understand it. She said she thought
it was waste paper, but I saw, I saw."

The 'bus they waited for came up, and they went on their way. On
reaching the neighbourhood of Peckham, they struck off through a
complex of small new streets, apparently familiar to Waymark, and came
at length to a little shop, also very new, the windows of which
displayed a fresh-looking assortment of miscellaneous goods. There was
half a large cheese, marked by the incisions of the tasting-knife; a
boiled ham, garlanded; a cone of brawn; a truncated