not a bit
like his father skipping along under his lee, would try to get him to
bet another that it never would, having found that it always did. And
James would make the bet; he always paid--sometimes as many as three
or four pennies in the afternoon, for the game seemed never to pall
on little Publius--and always in paying he said: "Now, that's for your
money-box. Why, you're getting quite a rich man!" The thought of his
little grandson's growing wealth was a real pleasure to him. But little
Publius knew a sweet-shop, and a trick worth two of that.

And they would walk home across the Park, James' figure, with high
shoulders and absorbed and worried face, exercising its tall, lean
protectorship, pathetically unregarded, over the robust child-figures of
Imogen and little Publius.

But those Gardens and that Park were not sacred to James. Forsytes and
tramps, children and lovers, rested and wandered day after day, night
after night, seeking one and all some freedom from labour, from the reek
and turmoil of the streets.

The leaves browned slowly, lingering with the sun and summer-like warmth
of the nights.

On Saturday, October 5, the sky that had been blue all day deepened
after sunset to the bloom of purple grapes. There was no moon, and a
clear dark, like some velvety garment, was wrapped around the trees,
whose thinned branches, resembling plumes, stirred not in the still,
warm air. All London had poured into the Park, draining the cup of
summer to its dregs.

Couple after couple, from every gate, they streamed along the paths and
over the burnt grass, and one after another, silently out of the lighted
spaces, stole into the shelter of the feathery trees, where, blotted
against some trunk, or under the shadow of shrubs, they were lost to all
but themselves in the heart of the soft darkness.

To fresh-comers along the paths, these forerunners formed but part of
that passionate dusk, whence only a strange murmur, like the confused
beating of hearts, came forth. But when that murmur reached each couple
in the lamp-light their voices wavered, and ceased; their arms enlaced,
their eyes began seeking, searching, probing the blackness. Suddenly,
as though drawn by invisible hands, they, too, stepped over the railing,
and, silent as shadows, were gone from the light.

The stillness, enclosed in the far, inexorable roar of the town, was
alive with the myriad passions, hopes, and loves of multitudes of
struggling hu