r. "No," said the voice beside him, "for all its faults, the wind
blows in that street, and there's a chance for everything. By God, I
would rather see a few stars struggle out in a black sky than any of
your perfect artificial lighting."

And suddenly it seemed to Miltoun that he could never free himself
from the echoes of that voice--it was not worth while to try. "We are
repeating ourselves," he said, dryly.

The river's black water was making stilly, slow recessional under a
half-moon. Beneath the cloak of night the chaos on the far bank, the
forms of cranes, high buildings, jetties, the bodies of the sleeping
barges, a--million queer dark shapes, were invested with emotion. All
was religious out there, all beautiful, all strange. And over this great
quiet friend of man, lamps--those humble flowers of night, were throwing
down the faint continual glamour of fallen petals; and a sweet-scented
wind stole along from the West, very slow as yet, bringing in advance
the tremor and perfume of the innumerable trees and fields which the
river had loved as she came by.

A murmur that was no true sound, but like the whisper of a heart to a
heart, accompanied this voyage of the dark water.

Then a small blunt skiff--manned by two rowers came by under the wall,
with the thudding and the creak of oars.

"So 'To-morrow we die'?" said Miltoun: "You mean, I suppose, that
'public life' is the breath of my nostrils, and I must die, because I
give it up?"

Courtier nodded.

"Am I right in thinking that it was my young sister who sent you on this
crusade?"

Courtier did not answer.

"And so," Miltoun went on, looking him through and through; "to-morrow
is to be your last day, too? Well, you're right to go. She is not an
ugly duckling, who can live out of the social pond; she'll always want
her native element. And now, we'll say goodbye! Whatever happens to
us both, I shall remember this evening." Smiling, he put out his hand
'Moriturus te saluto.'

CHAPTER XXIII

Courtier sat in Hyde Park waiting for five o'clock. The day had
recovered somewhat from a grey morning, as though the glow of that long
hot summer were too burnt-in on the air to yield to the first assault.
The sun, piercing the crisped clouds, those breast feathers of heavenly
doves, darted its beams at the mellowed leaves, and showered to the
ground their delicate shadow stains. The first, too early, scent from
leaves about to fall, penetrated to the hear