, it was London, which is another
thing. The usual crowd was streaming by, coming into bright light as it
streamed past a brilliant shop window, then in the shade for another
moment, and emerging again. The faces that were suddenly lit up as they
passed--some handsome faces, pale in the light; some with heads hung
down, either in bad health or bad humour; some full of cares and troubles,
others airy and gay--caught his attention. Did any of them all know
anything of this man, he wondered--knowing how absurd a question it was.
Had any of them written to-day a letter full of explanations, of a
matter that could not be explained? There were faces with far more
tragic meaning in them than could be so easily explained as that--the
faces of men, alas! and women too, who were going to destruction as fast
as their hurrying feet could carry them; or else were languidly drifting
no one knew where--out of life altogether, out of all that was good in
life. John Tatham knew this very well too, and had it in him to do
anything a man could to stop the wanderers in their downward career. But
to-night he was thinking of none of these things. He was only wondering
how she would explain it, how she could explain it, what she would say;
and lingering to prolong his suspense, not to know too soon what it was.

At last, however, as there is no delay but must come to an end one time
or another, he found himself at last in his room, in his smoking-coat
and slippers, divested of his stiff collar--at his ease, the windows
open upon the quiet of the Temple Gardens, a little fresh air breathing
in. He had taken all this trouble to secure ease for himself, to put
off a little the reading of the letter. Now the moment had come when
it would be absurd to delay any longer. It was so natural to see her
familiar handwriting--not a lady's hand, angular and pointed, like her
mother's, but the handwriting of her generation, which looks as if it
were full of character, until one perceives that it _is_ the writing of
the generation, and all the girls and boys write much the same. He took
time for this reflection still as he tore open the envelope. There were
two sheets very well filled, and written in at the corners, so that no
available spot was lost. "My dear old John," were the first words he
saw. He put down the letter and thought over the address. Well, she had
always called him so. He was old John when he was fourteen, to little
Elinor. They had always