he details are of course full of
difficulty--the thing wouldn't be worth much if they were not. One of
Milligan's best points is, that he's a thoroughly practical
man--thoroughly practical man. It's no commercial enterprise we're
about, but, if it's to succeed, it must be started on sound principles.
I'd give anything if I could persuade you to join us, old fellow. You
and your mother and sister--you're just the kind of people we want.
Think what a grand thing it will be to give a new start to
civilisation! Doesn't it touch you?"

Warburton was mute, and, taking this for a sign of the impressionable
moment, Sherwood talked on, ardently, lyrically, until Hyde Park Corner
was reached.

"Think it over, Will. We shall have you yet; I know we shall. Come and
see Milligan."

They parted with a warm hand-grip, and Warburton turned toward Fulham
Road.

When Warburton entered the shop the next morning, Allchin was on the
lookout for him.

"I want to speak to you, sir," he said, "about this golden syrup we've
had from Rowbottom's--"

Will listened, or seemed to listen, smiling at vacancy. To whatever
Allchin proposed, he gave his assent, and in the afternoon, without
daring to say a word he stole into freedom.

He was once more within sight of Albert Bridge. He walked or
prowled--for half an hour close about Oakley Crescent. Then, over the
bridge and into the Park. Back again, and more prowling. At last, weary
and worn, to the counter and apron, and Allchin's talk about golden
syrup.

The next day, just before sunset, he sauntered on the Embankment. He
lifted up his eyes, and there, walking towards him, came the slim
figure in grey.

"Not like the other evening," said Rosamund, before he could speak, her
eyes turning to the dull, featureless west.

He held her hand, until she gently drew it away, and then was
frightened to find that he had held it so long. From head to foot, he
quivered, deliciously, painfully. His tongue suffered a semi-paralysis,
so that, trying to talk, he babbled--something about the sweetness of
the air--a scent from the gardens across the river--

"I've had a letter from Bertha Cross," said his companion, as she
walked slowly on. "She comes home to-morrow."

"Bertha Cross--? Ah, yes, your friend--"

The name sounded to Warburton as if from a remote past. He repeated it
several times to himself.

They stood with face turned toward the lurid south. The air was very
still. From away down t