He had been in London a week. One day, towards evening, while he walked down Piccadilly, looking aimlessly at the people and asking himself what their inmost thoughts could be, he felt a hand on his shoulder, and a cheery voice called out his name. "I knew it was you, Parsons! Where the devil have you sprung from?" He turned round and saw a man he had known in India. Jamie's solitude and boredom had made him almost effusive. "By Jove, I am glad to see you!" he said, wringing the fellow's hand. "Come and have a drink. I've seen no one for days, and I'm dying to have some one to talk to." "I think I can manage it. I've got a train to catch at eight; I'm just off to Scotland." Jamie's face fell. "I was going to ask you to dine with me." "I'm awfully sorry! I'm afraid I can't." They talked of one thing and another, till Jamie's friend said he must go immediately; they shook hands. "Oh, by the way," said the man, suddenly remembering, "I saw a pal of yours the other day, who's clamouring for you." "For me?" James reddened, knowing at once, instinctively, that it could only be one person. "D'you remember Mrs. Pritchard-Wallace? She's in London. I saw her at a party, and she asked me if I knew anything about you. She's staying in Half Moon Street, at 201. You'd better go and see her. Good-bye! I must simply bolt." He left James hurriedly, and did not notice the effect of his few words.... She still thought of him, she asked for him, she wished him to go to her. The gods in their mercy had sent him the address; with beating heart and joyful step, James immediately set out. The throng in his way vanished, and he felt himself walking along some roadway of ethereal fire, straight to his passionate love--a roadway miraculously fashioned for his feet, leading only to her. Every thought left him but that the woman he adored was waiting, waiting, ready to welcome him with that exquisite smile, with the hands which were like the caresses of Aphrodite, turned to visible flesh. But he stopped short. "What's the good?" he cried, bitterly. Before him the sun was setting like a vision of love, colouring with softness and with quiet the manifold life of the city. James looked at it, his heart swelling with sadness; for with it seemed to die his short joy, and the shadows lengthening were like the sad facts of reality which crept into his soul one by one silently. "I won't go," he cried; "I daren't! Oh, God help me, and give me strength!" He turned into the Green Park, where lovers sat entwined upon the benches, and in the pleasant warmth the idlers and the weary slept upon the grass. James sank heavily upon a seat, and gave himself over to his wretchedness.