And as he walked through the quieter streets, more daring thoughts even came to him. He dreamed of a friendship which should become the backbone of his life, which should bring him into constant association with her, which should give him the right to offer at her feet the honors he might win--she, the woman who had first inspired him. He saw nothing of the passers-by; the faint importunities of the waifs who floated out from the shadows and vanished again like moths were unheard. The old music was singing in his blood; he walked as one whose footsteps fell upon the air. And then--crash down to earth again. He was in front of his house in Kensington, unlit and gloomy. He made his way quietly in with the aid of a latchkey, and stood for a moment in the hall, hesitating. From a room on the ground floor came the glimmer of a light. He made his way there softly and opened the door. A woman was stretched upon an easy-chair, asleep. He stood over her with darkening face. Milly had not improved. Her prettiness had vanished before a coarsening of features; she was stouter and untidy even to slatternliness. Her cheeks just now were flushed and she was breathing heavily. On the table by her side was a tumbler. He took it up, smelled it, and set it down with a little gesture of disgust. She showed no signs of waking. After a moment's hesitation he ensconced himself in a neighboring easy-chair, and, taking a roll of papers from his pocket, began to read, pencil in hand. For some time he worked; then the manuscript slipped from his hand. He sank a little down in his chair. With wide-open eyes he sat watching the extinct gray ashes on the hearth. The clock ticked and the woman's breathing grew louder. There was no other sound in the house. He was alone with his fate. Something woke her at last. She sat up and looked at him. "Hello!" she exclaimed. "How long have you been there?" "An hour--perhaps more," he answered. "You were asleep." "No wonder," she grumbled. "Enough to make one sleepy to sit here hour after hour alone, with you at your everlasting Parliament work." It struck him that there were several empty glasses about and the room smelled of tobacco smoke. "Have you had visitors?" he asked. She nodded. "Yes. Mr. Fagan and his wife." He frowned. "I don't see why Fagan should come when he knew I was out," he remarked. She laughed hardly. "You'd grudge me even their company, would you? Well, they came in to sit with me, and Fagan let a hint or two drop. You better look out, my man." "What do you mean?" he asked. "They ain't none too well pleased with you, these Labor chaps aren't, and I don't wonder at it. What do you want going to lords' dinner parties dressed up like one of them? Fagan says that ain't what you were sent to Parliament for."