He went through the passage and looked out into the inky darkness of the moonless January night; the sky was of a bluish blackness, only a shade less dense than the earth it canopied, and unpierced by any star. Prior listened intently for a moment, but no footsteps echoed down the street. Great London was asleep in these early morning hours, for it was nearing three o’clock. Once and again as he walked along Prior stopped to listen, then he bent down and slipped off his shoes, crammed one into each of the huge pockets of his long-skirted coat, and with noiseless flying footsteps sped down the street: the darkness received him. Meantime Phil and his father were walking together in the direction of St. James’ Square; Phil, gay as was his wont when excited, was pressing Meadowes to come home with him. ‘You have scarce seen me for months, sir, and Carrie is a stranger to you,’ he said. ‘I cannot come to-night, Phil, mayhap to-morrow,’ said Meadowes, as they paused at the corner where their ways parted. ‘Carrie will think me lost; ’tis three of the clock at the least,’ said Phil, and his father laughed. ‘You have not yet acquired that fine indifference which comes with practice, Phil,’ he said. ‘You mention your wife with too palpable interest.’ ‘Maybe, maybe,’ laughed Phil, whose heart indeed beat quicker at the sound of Carrie’s name. He held out his hand then and bade Meadowes good-night. ‘Ah, Philip, Philip, if only you loved me!’ thought Meadowes, as he turned and walked away down the dark street. Phil was going home to the wife he adored, while he—how bleak a loveless life like his was, to be sure! There was not a human being that would mourn his death—even Phil would not think twice of it—more than that, ‘I believe he would welcome it,’ he thought bitterly; ‘for all his frankness and his charm he cares nothing for me: I sometimes think he doth veritably hate me.’ Sad thoughts these on a winter’s night. ‘Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, _thou dost not bite so nigh_,’ he said, feeling the chill at his heart. A moment later he heard a step behind him, a light, unshod step, surely Phil returned. Could it be? Think if Phil were to come beside him in the darkness, touch his arm, speak one kind word, say that now all would be right between them! Surely even now the wilderness would rejoice—would blossom as the rose—at the coming of love. Surely he would leave his old crooked ways, live even yet a white, clean, straight year or two before all was ended, return, if he might do no more, to the attitude of heart that has at least a desire for good! These, and half a hundred more, thoughts crowded through his fancy in that silly moment of expectancy. But it was a moment so dear—like the sudden thawing of a long frost—that he dared scarcely break it. His voice was thick with feeling when he spoke.