nable suburb whatever. She had almost the
feeling of being in a metropolis, if a local metropolis.

"It's beginning to rain, I think," said Janet.

"Who's that?" Hilda questioned abruptly, ignoring the remark in the
swift, unreflecting excitement of a sensibility surprised.

"Where?"

"There!"

They were going down Duck Bank into the hollow. On the right, opposite
the lighted Dragon Hotel, lay Duck Square in obscure somnolence; at the
corner of Duck Square and Trafalgar Road was a double-fronted shop, of
which all the shutters were up except two or three in the centre of the
doorway. Framed thus in the aperture, a young man stood within the shop
under a bright central gas-jet; he was gazing intently at a large sheet
of paper which he held in his outstretched hands, and the girls saw him
in profile: tall, rather lanky, fair, with hair dishevelled, and a
serious, studious, and magnanimous face; quite unconscious that he made
a picture for unseen observers.

"That?" said Janet, in a confidential and interested tone. "That's young
Clayhanger--Edwin Clayhanger.[1] His father's the printer, you know.
Came from Turnhill, originally."

"I never knew," said Hilda. "But I seem to have heard the name."

"Oh! It must have been a long time ago. He's got the best business in
Bursley now. Father says it's one of the best in the Five Towns. He's
built that new house just close to ours. Don't you remember I pointed it
out to you? Father's the architect. They're going to move into it next
week or the week after. I expect that's why the son and heir's working
so late to-night, packing and so on, perhaps."

The young man moved out of sight. But his face had made in those few
thrilling seconds a deep impression on Hilda; so that in her mind she
still saw it, with an almost physical particularity of detail. It
presented itself to her, in some mysterious way, as a romantic visage,
wistful, full of sad subtleties, of the unknown and the seductive, and
of a latent benevolence. It was as recondite and as sympathetic as the
town in which she had discovered it.

She said nothing.

"Old Mr. Clayhanger is a regular character," Janet eagerly went on, to
Hilda's great content. "Some people don't like him. But I rather do like
him." She was always thus kind. "Grandmother once told me he sprang from
simply nothing at all--worked on a potbank when he was quite a child."

"Who? The father, you mean?"

"Yes, the father. Now, goodness know