It was the quietest hour of the twenty-four,--the hour
almost of dawn. The night wayfarers had passed away, the great
army of toilers as yet slumbered. One sad-eyed woman stumbled
against him as he walked slowly up Piccadilly. He lifted his hat
with an involuntary gesture, and her laugh changed into a sob. He
turned round, and emptied his pockets of silver into her hand,
hurrying away quickly that his eyes might not dwell upon her
face.
"A coward always," he murmured to himself, a little wearily, for
he knew where his weakness lay,--an invincible repugnance to the
ugly things of life. As he passed on, however, his spirits rose
again. He caught a breath of lilac scent from a closed florist's
shop. He looked up to the skies, over the housetops, faintly
blue, growing clearer every moment. Almost he fancied that he
looked again into the eyes of this strange girl, recalled her
unexpected yet delightful frankness, which to him, with his love
of abstract truth, was, after all, so fascinating. Oh, there was
much to be said for this Western world!--much to be said for
those whose part it was to live in it! Yet, never so much as
during that brief night walk through the silent streets, did he
realize how absolutely unfitted he was to be even a temporary
sojourner in this vast city. What would they say of him if they
knew,--of him, a breaker of their laws, a guest, and yet a sinner
against all their conventions; a guest, and yet one whose hand it
was which would strike them, some day or other, the great blow!
What would she think of him? He wondered whether she would
realize the truth, whether she would understand.
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