said, was not governed by any
foolish time limit. . . .

Suddenly the swinging leg feinted towards the left, and Binks dashed in
that direction. Curse it--he was stung again. His adversary flew to
the right, and was comfortably settled on the floor before Binks
appeared on the scene. However, his tail was still up, as he brought
it back, and he gave it an extra furious bite, just to show that he
would tolerate no uppishness on account of this preliminary
defeat. . . . Vane laughed. "You funny old man," he said. He stopped
and picked up the toy, replacing it on the mantelpiece. "That ends the
game for to-day, Binks, for I've got to go out. Would you like to
come, too?" The brown eyes looked adoringly up into his. Binks failed
to see why the first game after such a long time should be so short;
but--his not to reason why on such matters. Besides his master was
talking and Binks liked to have his opinion asked.

Once again Vane's eyes went back to the photograph he had been
studying. It was one of Margaret--taken years ago. . . . And as he
looked at it, a pair of grey eyes, with the glint of a mocking smile in
them, seemed to make the photo a little hazy.

"Come on, old man. We're going to Balham. And I need you to support
me."

Culman Terrace was not a prepossessing spectacle. A long straight road
ran between two rows of small and dreary houses. Each house was
exactly the same, with its tiny little plot of garden between the front
door and the gate. In some of the plots there were indications that
the owner was fond of gardening; here a few sweet peas curled lovingly
up the sticks put in for them--there some tulips showed signs of
nightly attention. But in most the plot was plain and drab as the
house--a dead thing; a thing without a soul. Individuality,
laughter--aye, life itself--seemed crushed in that endless road, with
its interminable rows of houses.

As Vane walked slowly up it looking for No. 14, the sun was shining.
For the moment it seemed clothed in some semblance of life; almost as
if it was stirring from a long sleep, and muttering to itself that love
and the glories of love were abroad to-day. . . . And then the sun
went behind a cloud, and everything was grey and dead once more.

Vane pictured it to himself on damp dark mornings in the winter--on
evenings when the days were shortening, and the gas lamps shone through
the gloom. He saw the doors opening, and each one disgorging