a glassy gleam on far-off hills which meant the Crystal
Palace; then the clouded majesty of eastern London, crowned by St Paul's
dome. These things one's friends were expected to admire. Sunset often
afforded rich effects, but they were for solitary musing.

A sitting-room, a bedroom, a kitchen. But the kitchen was called
dining-room, or even parlour at need; for the cooking-range lent itself
to concealment behind an ornamental screen, the walls displayed pictures
and bookcases, and a tiny scullery which lay apart sufficed for the
coarser domestic operations. This was Amy's territory during the hours
when her husband was working, or endeavouring to work. Of necessity,
Edwin Reardon used the front room as his study. His writing-table stood
against the window; each wall had its shelves of serried literature;
vases, busts, engravings (all of the inexpensive kind) served for
ornaments.

A maid-servant, recently emancipated from the Board school, came at
half-past seven each morning, and remained until two o'clock, by which
time the Reardons had dined; on special occasions, her services were
enlisted for later hours. But it was Reardon's habit to begin the
serious work of the day at about three o'clock, and to continue with
brief interruptions until ten or eleven; in many respects an awkward
arrangement, but enforced by the man's temperament and his poverty.

One evening he sat at his desk with a slip of manuscript paper before
him. It was the hour of sunset. His outlook was upon the backs of
certain large houses skirting Regent's Park, and lights had begun to
show here and there in the windows: in one room a man was discoverable
dressing for dinner, he had not thought it worth while to lower the
blind; in another, some people were playing billiards. The higher
windows reflected a rich glow from the western sky.

For two or three hours Reardon had been seated in much the same
attitude. Occasionally he dipped his pen into the ink and seemed about
to write: but each time the effort was abortive. At the head of the
paper was inscribed 'Chapter III.,' but that was all.

And now the sky was dusking over; darkness would soon fall.

He looked something older than his years, which were two-and-thirty; on
his face was the pallor of mental suffering. Often he fell into a fit
of absence, and gazed at vacancy with wide, miserable eyes. Returning
to consciousness, he fidgeted nervously on his chair, dipped his pen
for the hundredt