In January the darkness settles early in Paris. It was not yet five, and it was closing in, soft and sudden. This particular night it was rendered denser by the light rain that was falling--one of those needle-pointed, noiseless rains that come in the midst of a Paris winter and persist for days. Celia Reardon came home through it, letting her skirts flap against her heels. The package of sketches she had not sold to the dealer on the Rue Bonaparte was under her arm. From beneath the dark tent of her umbrella she looked straight before her down the vista of the street, glistening and winking from its lamps and windows. The light, striking clearly on her face, revealed it as small, pale, and plain, with a tight line of lip, and eyes sombrely staring at nothing. She made no attempt to lift her sodden skirt or avoid puddles. Walking heavily forward through the early dusk, she was advancing to meet the giant Despair. This was on her mind, and, to the observant eye, in her face. Celia knew of only one way to evade the approaching giant. It was by the turn that led to the river. Many people, in their terror at his approach, took this turn. She had seen them in the morgue in the days when she was new to Paris, and went about seeing the sights like a tourist. After the dealer on the Rue Bonaparte had given her back the sketches, telling her it was impossible to sell them, she had turned downward toward the _quais_, and came out there, under the skeleton trees, where the book-stalls line the wall. The dark, slumberous current of the river swept by under the gemmed arches of its bridges. It was carrying away all the foul and useless things of the day’s tumultuous life, all going helter-skelter, pell-mell, to the oblivion of the sea. She thought of herself going with them, whirling about in the currents, serenely indifferent to everything that tortured her now. The thought had a creeping fascination. She drew nearer, staring down at the water, stabbed with hundreds of quivering lights, and saw herself--a face, a trail of hair, a few folds of eddying drapery--go floating by. A sudden gust of wind snatched at her umbrella, and shook a deluge from the tree boughs, fretting the surface of the pools. It roused her, and she turned away shuddering. She would wait and meet the Giant face to face. As she turned into the _impasse_ where her studio was, she felt that he was getting very near. The long walk had tired her. Since yesterday her only food had been the free tea at the Girls’ Club. Her door was the last on the left-hand side, and broke the face of what looked a blank wall. Near it a bell-handle hung on the end of a wire. On the fourth floor she opened a door that had her card nailed to it.