arwell slammed the door behind him. He felt inclined to skip down the
stairs, not that anything particularly pleasant had happened but because
the bells of St Botolph's were pealing out a chime of freedom. It was
six. He had nothing to do. The best thing was to go to Moorgate Street
and take the books to Victoria. On second thoughts, no, he would wait.
Six o'clock might still be a busy time.

Farwell walked down the narrow lane from Bishopsgate into St. Botolph's
churchyard. It was a dank and dreary evening, dark already. The wind
swept over the paths in little whirlwinds. Dejected sparrows sought
scraps of food among the ancient graves where office boys munch buns and
read of woodcarving and desperate adventure. He sat down on a seat by
the side of a shape that slept, and opened one of the books, though it
was too dark to read. The shape lifted an eyelid and looked at him.

Farwell turned over the pages listlessly. It was a history of
revolutionists. For some reason he hated them to-day, all of them. Jack
Cade was a boor, Cromwell a tartuffe, Bolivar a politician, Mazzini a
theorist. It would bore Victoria.

Farwell brought himself up with a jerk. He was thinking of Victoria too
often. As he was a man who faced facts he told himself quite plainly
that he did not intend to fall in love with her. He did not feel capable
of love; he hated most people, but did not believe that a good hater was
a good lover.

'Clever, of course,' he muttered, 'but no woman is everlastingly clever.
I won't risk finding her out.'

The shape at his side moved. It was an old man, filthy, clad in
blackened rags, with a matted beard. Farwell glanced at him and turned
away.

'I'd have you poisoned if I could,' he thought. Then he returned to
Victoria. Was she worth educating? And supposing she was educated, what
then? She would become discontented, instead of brutalised. The latter
was the happier state. Or she would fall in love with him, when he would
give her short shrift. What a pity. A tiny wave of sentiment flowed into
Farwell's soul.

'Clever, clever,' he thought, 'a little house, babies, roses, a fox
terrier.'

'Gov'nor,' croaked a hoarse voice beside him.

Farwell turned quickly. The shape was alive, then, curse it.

'Well, what d'you want?'

'Give us a copper, gov'nor, I'm an old man, can't work. S'elp me, Gawd,
gov'nor, 'aven't 'ad a bite. . . .'

'That'll do, you fool,' snarled Farwell, 'why the hell don't you go and
ge