did
not understand, have belonged to some ageing woman with a bony body and
a sallow face. But then he saw against the lit pavement her narrow feet
treading that gait that was like a grave, slow dance, and he realised
with agony that it was no use lying to himself and pretending that this
was anybody but Ellen--Ellen, who was far different from every other
woman in the world and more desirable. She slowly turned, as if her
spirit had felt this rage at the fact of her running at her heels, and
wished to have it out with him. He gripped his stick and raised a hand
to hide his working mouth, and waited for the moment when she would see
his face, but it did not come.

The man Yaverland had put out his great ham of a hand and hailed a cab.
When Mr. Philip tried to stop a cab he usually had to run alongside it,
and often the driver was most impudent, but this swaggering bully
checked the thing on the instant, and handed in Ellen and drove off in
style as if he was a duke with his duchess in their own carriage. What
did they want in a cab anyway? He followed the black trundling square on
its spidery wheels as it turned round by the Register House to cross the
North Bridge, and imagined the fine carryings on they were doubtless
having in the dark in there. He called Ellen a name he had not thought
of before.

There was nothing to be done about it. He stood for a while at the
railing of that strange garden of concrete walks and raised parterres
and ventilating-shafts that lies at this end of Princes Street, built on
the roof of the sunk market. Its rectilinear aspect pleased him. It was
not romantic, the gates were locked, and one could be sure that there
were no lovers trysting there. Presently he moved along towards the West
End, keeping still on the side of the street where there were no men and
girls prancing about and grinning at each other like dirty apes under
the lights, but only empty gardens with locked gates. What had those two
been doing? They had come in by train. Unless they had travelled a very
long journey it must have been dark before they started. They had been
in the country alone together when it was quite dark. There came to him
memories of sounds he had once heard when walking through a twilit wood,
the crackling of twigs, a little happy cry of distress, and again the
crackling of twigs; he had been compelled by something, which was not
specially in him but was a part of the damned way life went, to stand