ce was joy. She knew every landmark, the
tobacconist, the picture shop, still full of 'Mother's Helps' and of
'artistic' studies in the nude; there was the red-coated bootblack too,
as dirty and as keenly solicitous as ever. The P.R.R. itself did not
chill her. In the crude June sunlight its nickel shone gaily enough.
Everything was as before; the cakes had been moulded in the old moulds,
and here was the old bill of fare, unchanged no doubt; even the
marble-topped tables and the half cleaned cruets looked kindly upon her;
but the tesselated red and blue floor aroused the hateful memory of
another Victoria on her hands and knees, an old sack round her waist,
painfully swaying from right to left, swabbing the tiles. Little
rivulets of water and dirt flowed slowly across the spectre's hand.

As she went down the steps into the smoking-room she crossed with the
manageress, still buxom and erect; but she passed unnoticed, for this
was the busy hour when the chief tried to be simultaneously on three
floors. The room was not so full as it had once been. She sat down at a
little table and watched the familiar scene for some minutes. She told
the girl she would wait a minute, for she did not want to miss Farwell.
The world had gone round, but apparently the P.R.R. was the axis. There
in the corner were the chess players; to-day they only ran four boards,
but at one of them a fierce discussion was going on as to a variation of
the queen's pawn opening. On the other side of the room were the young
domino players, laughing and smoking cigarettes. The fat and yellow
Levantine was missing. Victoria regretted him, for the apocalyptic
figure was an essential part of the ugly past. But there was 'old dry
toast' all alone at his little table. He had not changed; his white hair
still framed thickly his beautiful old brown face. There he sat, still
silent and desolate, waiting for the end. Victoria felt a pang of
sorrow. She was not quite hardened yet and she realised it angrily.
There must be no sympathy and no quarter in her game of life. It was too
late or too soon for that. Victoria let her eyes stray round the room.
There were the young men and boys or some of the same breed, in their
dark suits, brilliant ties, talking noisily, chaffing one another,
gulping down their small teas and toasted scones. A conversation between
two older men was wafted in to her ears.

'Awful. Have you tried annelicide?'

At that moment a short broad fig