into which one fell, as the unwary traveller falls into
the ditch by the roadside, picking himself out as quickly as may be,
or, in his weariness, choosing at least to sleep the night there and
go on with his journey next morning. In the heart of Sally, whether
it were a pitfall or not, love was an end in itself. She directed
all her steps towards that destination, and any light of romance
allured her.

That evening, walking up towards Kew Bridge, the lights of the barges
lying in the stream, looking themselves like huddled reptiles
seeking the warmth of each other's bodies, the lights of the little
buildings on the eyot, and the lamps of the bridge itself, all dancing
quaint measures in the black water, brought to the susceptibility
of Sally's mind a sense of romance. For the moment, until he spoke,
she forgot the actual presence of Mr. Arthur. The vague knowledge
that some one was with her, stood for the indefinite, the unknown
quantity whose existence was essential to the completion of the
whole.

As they passed by the City Barge--that little old-fashioned inn which
faces the water on the river path--she looked in through the windows.
There were bargemen, working men who lived near by, and others whose
faces she had often seen as she had walked to her tram in the morning,
all talking, laughing good-naturedly, some with the pewter pots
pressed to their lips, head throwing slightly back, others enforcing
a point with an empty mug on the bar counter. And outside, ahead of
them, the lean, gaunt willows, around whose very trunks the hard
paving had been laid, shot up into the black sky like witches' brooms
that the wind was combing out.

Bright, cheerful lights glowed in every cottage window. In some it
was only the light of a fire that leaped a ruddy dance on the
whitewashed walls, and caught reflections in the lintels of the
windows. In others it was a candle, in others a small oil lamp; but
in all, looking through the windows as she passed, Sally saw some
old man or woman seated over a fire. There is romance, even in content.
Sally was half conscious of it, until Mr. Arthur spoke; then it
whipped out, vanished--a wisp of smoke that the air scatters.

"Let's lean over that railing and watch the boats," he suggested.

There were scarcely any boats moving, to be seen. He spoke at random,
as if the river swarmed with them; but only a little tug now and then
scurried like a water-rat out of the shadows of the bridge,