He saw once again the wistful look in his father’s eyes, the mingled love, pride, and anxiety with which he had turned to him, loath to let him go, and yet eager to speed him on his way. Should he now disappoint all his hopes? Should he, deliberately and in the full possession of all his faculties, take a step which must bring terrible suffering to his home people? And then he remembered for the first time that already trouble and vexation and loss had overtaken his father; he knew well how greatly he would regret the connection with the English firm, and he pictured to himself the familiar house in Kalvedalen with a new and unfamiliar cloud upon it, till instead of the longing for death there came to him a nobler longing—a longing to go back and help, a longing to make up to his father for the loss and vexation and the slight which had been put upon him. He began to feel ashamed of the other wish, he began to realize that there was still something to be lived for, though indeed life looked to him as dim and uninviting as the twilight park with its wreaths of gray mists, and its unpeopled solitude. Yet still he would live; the other thought no longer allured him, his strength and manliness were returning; with bitter resolution he tore himself from the vision of Blanche which rose mockingly before him, and getting up, made his way out of the park. Emerging once more into the busy world of traffic at Hyde Park corner, the perception of his forlorn desolateness came to him with far more force than in the quiet path by the Serpentine. For the first time he felt keenly that he was in an unknown city, and there came over him a sick longing for Norway, for dear old Bergen, for the familiar mountains, the familiar faces, the friendly greetings of passers-by. For a few minutes he stood still, uncertain which road to take, wondering how in the world he should get through the weary hours of his solitary evening. Close by him a young man stood talking to the occupants of a brougham which had drawn up by the pavement; he heard a word or two of their talk, dimly, almost unconsciously. “Is the result of the trial known yet?” “Yes, five years’ penal servitude, and no more than he deserves.” “The poor children! what will become of them?” “Shall you be home by ten? We wont hinder you, then.” “Quite by ten. Tell father that Sardoni is free for the night he wanted him; I met him just now. Good-by.” Then to the coachman “Home!” The word startled Frithiof back to the recollection of his own affairs; he had utterly lost his bearings and must ask for direction. He would accost this man who seemed a little less in a hurry than the rest of the world. “Will you kindly tell me the way to the Arundel Hotel?” he asked. The young man turned at the sound of his voice, looked keenly at him for an instant, then held out his hand in cordial welcome.