r of the street.
It drew nearer. A man suddenly stepped into the circle of light on the
pavement, as if upon a miniature stage; and as suddenly paused to gaze
upward at the big white globe.

He was a middle-aged man, dressed in an ill-fitting suit of broad-cloth,
with a shabby silk hat and country-made boots. He stared up at the
globe, as if to take his bearings in the fog; then pulled out a watch.

As the light streamed down upon its dial, a woman sidled out from the
hollow of a shop-door behind him, and touched his elbow.

"Deary!" she began. "Going home, deary?"

"Heh? Let me alone, please," said the man roughly. "I am not that
sort." She had almost slipped her arm in his before he turned to speak;
but now she caught it away, gasping. Mock globes danced before his eyes
and for the moment he saw nothing but these: did not see that first she
would have run, then moved her hands up to cover her face. Before they
could do so he saw it, all white and damned.

"Annie!"

"Oh, Willy . . ." She put out a hand as if to ward him off, but dropped
both arms before her and stood, swaying them ever so slightly.

"So this . . . So _this_ . . ." He choked upon the words.

She nodded, hardening her eyes to meet his. "He left me. He sent no
money--"

"I see."

"I was afraid."

"Afraid?"

"Afraid to do it . . . suddenly . . . to put an end. . . . It's not so
easy to starve, really. Oh, Willy, can't you hit me?"

He seemed to be reflecting. "I--I say," he said abruptly, "can't we
talk? Can't we get away somewhere and talk?"

Her limp arms seemed to answer: they asked, as plainly as words,
"What is there to say?"

"I don't know. . . . Somewhere out of this infernal light. I want to
think. There must be somewhere, away from this light . . ." He broke
off. "At home, now, I can think. I am always thinking at home."

"At home . . ." the woman echoed.

"And you must think too?"

"Always: everywhere."

"Ah!" he ran on, as one talking against time: "but what do you suppose
I think about, nine times out of ten? Why"--and he uttered it with an
air of foolish triumph--"of the chances that we might meet . . . and
what would happen. Have you ever thought of that?"

"Always: everywhere . . . of that . . . and the children."

"Grace looks after them."

"I know. I get word. She is kind."

"You think of them?"

"Don't, Willy!"

He harked back. "Do you know, whenever I've thought of it . . . t