oke of a serene night, and I determined to make my way
down to the Embankment, and rest my eyes and cool my head by
watching the variegated lights upon the river. Beyond comparison
the night is the best time for this place; a merciful darkness
hides the dirt of the waters, and the lights of this transitional
age, red glaring orange, gas-yellow, and electric white, are set in
shadowy outlines of every possible shade between grey and deep
purple. Through the arches of Waterloo Bridge a hundred points of
light mark the sweep of the Embankment, and above its parapet rise
the towers of Westminster, warm grey against the starlight. The
black river goes by with only a rare ripple breaking its silence,
and disturbing the reflections of the lights that swim upon its
surface.

"A warm night," said a voice at my side.

I turned my head, and saw the profile of a man who was leaning
over the parapet beside me. It was a refined face, not unhandsome,
though pinched and pale enough, and the coat collar turned up and
pinned round the throat marked his status in life as sharply as a
uniform. I felt I was committed to the price of a bed and
breakfast if I answered him.

I looked at him curiously. Would he have anything to tell me
worth the money, or was he the common incapable--incapable even of
telling his own story? There was a quality of intelligence in his
forehead and eyes, and a certain tremulousness in his nether lip
that decided me.

"Very warm," said I; "but not too warm for us here."

"No," he said, still looking across the water, "it is pleasant
enough here . . . . just now."

"It is good," he continued after a pause, "to find anything so
restful as this in London. After one has been fretting about
business all day, about getting on, meeting obligations, and
parrying dangers, I do not know what one would do if it were not
for such pacific corners." He spoke with long pauses between the
sentences. "You must know a little of the irksome labour of the
world, or you would not be here. But I doubt if you can be so
brain-weary and footsore as I am . . . . Bah! Sometimes I doubt if
the game is worth the candle. I feel inclined to throw the whole
thing over--name, wealth and position--and take to some modest
trade. But I know if I abandoned my ambition--hardly as she uses
me--I should have nothing but remorse left for the rest of my
days."

He became silent. I looked at him in astonishment. If ever
I saw a m