the bestial-handsome sort, with a smear of wet black hair on her
brow, and a sensuous mouth, spurting breath like the lips of a swimmer
half under water.

Out of this--anywhere. Feverish haste in dressing. Robbed,
too--penniless.

What does that matter?

It matters greatly, it would seem, for here is a hulking, pock-marked
villain demanding money, and a shrieking, night-gowned virago hauling
the fugitive back up the stairs with obscenities which match the place
and himself and her.

Then a flash in the heart, as if Hell's flame of shame and Heaven's
lightning of righteous wrath lit it together. The pock-marked rascal is
lying quiet on the ruddled bricks at the foot of the stairs. The woman's
Voice curses until the corner is turned. A door slams. He is hatless and
unwashed and dishevelled, standing in the Blackfriars Road.

Never to be forgotten the taste of the morning river air; never to be
forgotten the grain of the stone on which his elbows leaned, or the
tawny coil of the waters below him; never to be forgotten the purple
dome and dark cross of Paul's, with its edge of gold on one side and the
rosy east away and away beyond it.

His thoughts were the gasps of a devil's agony. He felt in gushes, like
the welling of heart's blood. His soul clamoured 'Beast, beast, beast!'
at him; 'how dare you foul my dwelling-place!'

A warm trickle on his left hand, which had some dim associations of
physical pain, bade him look at it; there was a yellow splinter of tooth
sticking there. He warmed to think he had struck home, and then chilled
as he asked: 'Wasn't the poor devil at his proper trade?' He pulled out
the jagged splinter, and bound the wound with his handkerchief.

To be twenty hours younger! To be only ten hours younger!

Ting, ting, clang, clang 'Ting, ting, dang, clang! Ting, ting, clang,
clang! Ting, ting, clang, clang! The bells of the clock-tower at
Westminster. He made a fool's rhyme to them:

'Down--In--my--home--'neath---the--clear--sky--No--thing--they--know
--and--naught--care--I.'

The big bell said 'Doom 'eight times.

'Doom' the big bell seemed to say a ninth time, sweet and far. The
Dreamer started, awoke, and knew his surroundings again. The ninth sound
was the deep call of an engine whistle, rolled on river and rock and
forest, and mellowed on many miles of smoky air. He sat with his chin on
his hands, his heart yet tingling.

'Was that how it happened, Paul?

In his soul the questio