natural pathos merely;
it kept suggesting all sorts of fanciful ideas, due in a measure,
possibly, to Mrs. Hewett's speculations. For an hour he was so lost in
musing on the subject that he even rested from the misery of his
ceaseless thought of Clara.

He allowed three days to pass, then went to inquire about Jane's
progress. It had been satisfactory. Subsequent visits brought him to
terms of a certain intimacy with Snowdon. The latter mentioned at
length that he was looking for two rooms, suitable for himself and
Jane. He wished them to be in a decent house, somewhere in Clerkenwell,
and the rent was not to be more than a working man could afford.

'You don't know of anything in your street?' he asked diffidently.

Something in the tone struck Sidney. It half expressed a wish to live
in his neighbourhood if possible. He looked at his companion (they were
walking together), and was met in return with a glance of calm
friendliness; it gratified him, strengthened the feeling of respect and
attachment which had already grown out of this intercourse. In Tysoe
Street, however, no accommodation could be found. Sidney had another
project in his thoughts; pursuing it, he paid a visit the next evening
to certain acquaintances of his named Byass, who had a house in Hanover
Street, Islington, and let lodgings. Hanover Street lies to the north
of City Road; it is a quiet byway, of curving form, and consists of
dwellings only. Squalor is here kept at arm's length; compared with
regions close at hand, this and the contiguous streets have something
of a suburban aspect.

Three or four steps led up to the house-door. Sidney's knock summoned a
young, healthy-faced, comely woman, who evinced hearty pleasure on
seeing who her visitor was. She brought him at once into a parlour on
the ground-floor.

'Well, an' I was only this mornin' tellin' Sam to go an' look after
you, or write a note, or somethin'! Why can't you come round oftener?
I've no patience with you! You just sit at 'ome an' get humped, an'
what's the good o' that, I should like to know? I thought you'd took
offence with me, an' so I told Sam. Do you want to know how baby is?
Why don't you ask, then, as you ought to do the first thing? He's a
good deal better than he deserves to be, young rascal--all the trouble
he gives me! He's fast asleep, I'm glad to say, so you can't see him.
Sam'll be back in a few minutes; at least I expect him, but there's no
knowin' nowadays when