ted room shadows of men and women crossed the blinds, and
still the "Wiener Blut" went forward.

The devil was in that waltz. He had hold of the violins and was weaving
the air with scents and visions--visions of Ascot and Henley; green
lawns, gay sunshades, midsummer heat, cool rivers flowing, muslins
rippled by light breezes; running horses and silken jackets; white
tables heaped with roses and set with silver and crystal, jewelled
fingers moving in the soft candle-light, bare necks bending, diamonds,
odours, bubbles in the wine; blue water and white foam beneath the
leaning shadow of sails; hot air flickering over stretches of moorland;
blue again--Mediterranean blue--long facades, the din of bands and King
Carnival parading beneath showers of blossom:--and all this noise and
warmth and scent and dazzle flung out into the frozen street for a
beggar's portion. I had gone under.

The door of the house opposite had been free to me once--and not six
months ago; freer to me perhaps than to any other. Did I long to pass
behind it again? I thrust both hands into my pockets for warmth, and my
right hand knocked against something hard. Yes . . . just once. . . .

Suddenly the door opened. A man stood on the threshold for a moment
while the butler behind him arranged the collar of his fur overcoat.
The high light in the portico flung the shadows of both down the crimson
carpet laid on the entrance-steps. Snow had fallen and covered the
edges of the carpet, which divided it like a cascade of blood pouring
from the hall into the street. And still overhead the "Wiener Blut"
went forward.

The man paused in the bright portico, his patent-leather boots twinkling
under the lamp's rays on that comfortable carpet. I waited, expecting
him to whistle for a hansom. But he turned, gave an order to the
butler, and stepping briskly down into the street, made off eastwards.
The door closed behind him. He was the man I most hated in the world.
If I had longed to cross the threshold a while back it was to seek him,
and for no other reason.

I started to follow him, my hands still in my pockets. The snow muffled
our footfalls completely, for as yet the slight north-east wind had
frozen but the thinnest crust of it. He was walking briskly, as men do
in such weather, but with no appearance of hurry. At the corner of
Sloane Street he halted under a lamp, pulled out his watch, consulted
it, and lit a cigarette; then set off again