ked for quite a long distance
without speaking, I drinking in the tribute of her worship and enjoying
it. Then gaining confidence, she shyly put her hand into mine, and
finding I did not repel her, promptly assumed possession of me,
according to woman's way.

For her age and station she must have been a person of means, for having
tried in vain various methods to make me more acceptable to followers
and such as having passed would turn their heads, she said:

"I know, gelatines;" and disappearing into a sweetstuff shop, returned
with quite a quantity. With these, first sucked till glutinous, we
joined my many tatters. I still attracted attention, but felt warmer.

She informed me that her name was Cissy, and that her father's shop was
in Three Colt Street. I informed her that my name was Paul, and that
my father was a lawyer. I also pointed out to her that a lawyer is much
superior in social position to a shopkeeper, which she acknowledged
cheerfully. We parted at the corner of the Stainsby Road, and I let her
kiss me once. It was understood that in the Stainsby Road we might meet
again.

I left Eliza gaping after me, the front door in her hand, and ran
straight up into my own room. Robinson Crusoe, King Arthur, The Last of
the Barons, Rob Roy! I looked them all in the face and was not ashamed.
I also was a gentleman.

My mother was much troubled when she saw me, but my father, hearing the
story, approved.

"But he looks so awful," said my mother. "In this world," said my
father, "one must occasionally be aggressive--if necessary, brutal."

My father would at times be quite savage in his sentiments.

CHAPTER IV.

PAUL, FALLING IN WITH A GOODLY COMPANY OF PILGRIMS, LEARNS OF THEM THE
ROAD THAT HE MUST TRAVEL. AND MEETS THE PRINCESS OF THE GOLDEN LOCKS.

The East India Dock Road is nowadays a busy, crowded thoroughfare. The
jingle of the tram-bell and the rattle of the omnibus and cart mingle
continuously with the rain of many feet, beating ceaselessly upon its
pavements. But at the time of which I write it was an empty, voiceless
way, bounded on the one side by the long, echoing wall of the docks and
on the other by occasional small houses isolated amid market gardens,
drying grounds and rubbish heaps. Only one thing remains--or did remain
last time I passed along it, connecting it with its former self--and
that is the one-storeyed brick cottage at the commencement of the
bridge, and which was formerly th