and listen, though he knew it was not decent. He saw before him Ellen's
face lying white on her spilt red hair, and it added to his anguish that
he could not see it clearly, but had to peer at this enraging vision
because he could not make out what her expression would be. He had seen
her look a thousand ways during these last few weeks when she had kept
on drawing his attention to her with her simpering girl's tricks, but he
could not imagine how she would look then. It seemed as if she were
defying his imagination as she defied him every day in the office, and
he turned his mind away from the matter in a frenzy, but began soon to
wonder what those two had been doing. They had come in by train. Unless
they had travelled a very long journey it must have been dark before
they started....

He knew he must not go on like this, and looked round him. He had passed
the classic portico of the Art Gallery and was walking now by the wilder
section of the gardens, where the street lights shone back from the
shining leaves of bushes and made them look like glazed paper, and with
their glare made the trees behind seem such flat canvas trees as they
set about the stage at theatres when there is need for a romantic glade
for a lovers' meeting. How often had Ellen met Yaverland?

He ran across the road. It would be better among the people. It was not
so bad if you did not watch them and see how happy they were. Everybody
in the world was happy except him. No doubt Ellen and her Yaverland were
just bursting with merriment in that cab. Would they be at home yet? She
would be telling him all the office jokes. Well, she might, for all he
cared. He knew fine that young Innes called him Mr. Philip
Hop-o'-my-Thumb behind his back, and he didn't give a straw for it. He
stopped in front of a picture-postcard shop that was hung from top to
bottom of its window with strings of actresses' photographs, and stood
there with a jaunty rising and falling of the heels, bestowing an
exaggerated attention on the glossy black and white patterns that
indicated the glittering facades of these charmers' smiles, the milky
smoothness of their bean-fed femininity. Ah, these were the really fine
women that it was worth troubling your head about, from whose satin
slippers, it was well known, dukes and the like drank champagne. Who
would bother about a wee typist when there were women like these in the
world?

But as he looked at them he perceived that there wa