Catherine put on her hat and cloak and went out by the side door. She was not angry, but she was suffering from one of those periodical fits of disillusionment which were the aftermath of her dreaming. She walked out into the Ridgeway, where the gas lamps glowed amongst the sprouting trees. Far away she could hear the clang of trams along the High Road. She passed the corner house where, it seemed now an age ago, she had discovered her soul in the murmur of a grand piano. Swiftly she walked along the tarred asphalt, thinking to reach Gifford Road and have supper. She felt disappointed. The evening had been lacking in that species of adventure it had seemed to promise. She had not seen George Trant. That, she told herself, had nothing to do with it. Down the Ridgeway a newsboy came running bearing a placard-sheet in front of him. “Suicide of a Bockley Schoolmaster,” it said. An awful excitement seized her. Eagerly she bought a paper and searched the front page. It took some moments to discover the announcement. It was only a small paragraph on an inside page: the placard had evidently been printed to stimulate local circulation. “Mr. Weston,” she read, “of 24, Kitchener Road, Bockley, an elementary school teacher at the Downsland Road Council School ... throat cut....” She leaned up against the iron railing round a tree. Then, discovering that she was attracting the attention of passers-by, she walked on more swiftly than before. In her excitement she took the opposite direction, towards the Bockley High Street.... § 3 Half-way down the Ridgeway she met George Trant. They were both walking excessively fast and in opposite directions: they almost cannoned into each other. “Just looking for you,” he said, stopping her. He wore evening dress beneath an overcoat. It was peculiar that her eyes should glue themselves upon an ivory solitaire that he wore. She was half dazed. “Looking for me?” she echoed, vaguely. “Yes. Thought you’d gone back to your digs. I was coming to fetch you. What I want to say is----” (That was one of his mannerisms of speech. In his letters he had constantly written, “What I want to say is----”) “we’re having a little supper at the Forest Hotel after the concert’s over. Just ourselves--the performers, I mean. Of course you’ll join us.... I didn’t think you’d be running off so early, or I should have mentioned it before....” She was still staring monotonously at that ivory solitaire of his. “Well--er--you see ... er....” “Of course if you’re engaged for somewhere else----” “No, I’m not engaged for anywhere else.” She paused, as if weighing things in the balance. Then a change came over her. It was as if she were suddenly electrified. Her eyes lifted and were found shining with peculiar brilliance. Her body, too, which had been tiredly swaying, jerked all at once into challenging rigidity. “All right,” she said, and even in her voice there was a new note, “I’ll come.”