tately woman whose walk was upon the heights of
mind--some great artist--some glorious sovereign of culture. Instead of
that, a simple girl who lived by her needle, who spoke faultily. And he
loved her with the love which comes to a man but once.

The evening came at last. Long before it was really time to start for
Lambeth, on his visit to Bunce, he began to walk southwards. He was at
Westminster Bridge by half-past seven; probably it would be useless to
call in Newport Street for another hour. He went down on to the Lambeth
Embankment.

It was his hope that no acquaintance would pass this way. Still
blameless in fact, he could not help a fear of being observed; the
feeling could not have been stronger if he had come with the express
purpose of seeking Thyrza. The air was cold; it blew at moments
piercingly from the river. Where the sun had set, there was still a
swarthy glow upon the clouds; the gas-lamps gave a haggardness to the
banks and the bridges.

He walked at a quick pace; this way, then that. Workmen and women in
numbers were hurrying in both directions. Egremont kept his face
towards the river, that he might see no one. There was no likelihood
that Thyrza would pass. If she did, if she were alone and saw him, he
knew she would come up to him and speak.

The bell at Westminster struck out the hour of eight. He turned off the
Embankment and went on to Lambeth Bridge, stopping at length to lean on
the parapet at the same place where Gilbert had stood and mused one
night when his happiness was almost too great to bear. To Egremont the
darkening scene was in accord with the wearied misery which made his
life one dull pain. London lay beneath the night like a city of
hopeless toil, of aimless conflict, of frustration and barrenness. His
philosophy was a sham, a spinning of cobwebs for idle hours when the
heart is restful and the brain seeks to be amused. He had no more
strength to bear the torture of an inassuageable desire than any
foolish fellow who knew not the name of culture. He could not look
forward to the day of forgetting; he would not allow himself to believe
that he ever could forget.

But it was time now to go on to Newport Street. In Paradise Street,
just before the railway arch, he glanced at the Bowers' shop, and
dreaded lest Bower should meet him. But he saw no one that he knew
before reaching Bunce's abode.

The landlady opened the door. Bunce was at home, and in a moment came
down. He ret