tch her countenance change from placid, if grave,
thought, to the awakening of surprise, to startled recognition; he could
see the colour die upon her cheeks, flee from her lips; he could observe
the great heartthrobs which shook her and left her bosom quivering. He
did not uncover his head; conventional courtesies have their season. It
seemed very long before they ceased to look into each other's eyes, but
at length hers fell.

'Is it possible that you are living in London?' were Wilfrid's first
words. He could affect no distance of manner. To him all at once it was
as though they had parted a few days ago.

'Yes,' she answered simply. 'In a far part of London.'

'And we meet here, where I seemed to find myself by the merest chance. I
saw a stranger in the distance, and thought of yourself; I knew you long
before you looked up from your reading.'

Emily tried to smile.

'How little you are changed!' Wilfrid continued, his voice keeping still
its awed quietness, with under-notes of feeling. 'Rather, you are not
changed at all.'

It was not true, but in the few minutes that he had gazed at her, past
and present had so blended that he could not see what another would have
noticed. Emily was appreciably older, and ill-health had set marks upon
her face. A stranger looking at her now would have found it hard to
imagine her with the light of joy in her eyes; her features had set
themselves in sorrow. Her cheeks were very thin; her eyes were dark and
sunken. Wilfrid saw only the soul in her gaze at him, and that was as it
had ever been.

She was unable to speak; Wilfrid found words.

'Do you often walk here? Is your home near?'

'Not very near. I came by the river,' she answered.

'I am very glad that I have met you.' The words sounded insufficient,
but Wilfrid was by this time at battle with himself, and succeeded in
saying less than he felt. 'You will let me walk on a little way with
you? We can't shake hands at once and say good-bye, can we, after such a
long time?'

He spoke in the tone one uses to jest over bygone sadness. Emily made no
verbal answer, but walked along by his side.

'You still have your old habits,' he said, casting an eye at the book.
'Are your tastes still the same, I wonder?'

'It is Dante,' she replied.

The name brought another to Wilfrid's consciousness; he averted his eyes
for a moment, but spoke again without much delay.

'Still faithful to the great names. This is a lovely plac