I wandered from end to end of London day after day, reporting the events which daily crop up in the Metropolis. It seemed to me as if those days would never end. I saw nothing but the face of Eva. The world which had seemed to me so beautiful had changed; Heaven was cruel. It created loveliness only to pollute and deform it afterwards. Out of my dreams I was brought face to face with facts that sickened me. The old landmarks of my faith were gone. Whatever happy hopefulness of nature I possessed was crushed. I was bewildered and sick at heart. Yet through it all I could not thrust away from me Eva's wondrous beauty. Her form, her gaze, her smile, her sigh--I could think of nothing else. Yet the mockery of it all stung me to despair, and despair is man's most frequent visitor. A week thus passed. I saw her in the air, in the clouds, everywhere; her voice rang in my ears; she was so lovely--and yet she was so vile--a poisoner! One afternoon I had returned to Gray's Inn unusually early, about three o'clock, put on my old lounge-coat, a river "blazer," and sat down to write up an interview for publication next day, when I heard a ring at the door, voices outside the room, and a few moments later Mrs. Joad entered, saying--"'Ere's a lady wants to see you, sir." "A lady?" I exclaimed, turning quickly in my chair. "Ask her in." I rose, brushing down my hair with my hand, and next moment found myself face to face with Eva. She advanced with her hand outstretched and a smile upon her face, that countenance that was ever before me in my day-dreams. "How fortunate I am to find you in," she exclaimed, half breathless after the ascent of the stairs. "I've been to your office, and they told me that you were probably at home." "It is I who am fortunate," I answered, laughing gaily, placing the armchair for her and drawing out a little oaken footstool, a relic from some bygone generation of men who had tenanted those grimy old rooms. With a sigh she seated herself, and then for the first time I noticed the deathly pallor of her cheeks. Even her thick veil did not conceal it. She was in black, neat as usual, but her skirt was unbrushed and dusty, and her hair was just a trifle awry, as though she had been travelling about some hours. "I have called upon you here for the first and for the last time," she said in a broken voice, looking seriously across to me, as the unwonted tears sprang into her eyes. "The last time!" I echoed. "What do you mean?" "I have come to wish you farewell," she said in a low, faltering voice. "I am leaving London. My mother and I are going abroad." "Abroad? Where?" I cried, dismayed.