He paused at the shop at the corner of East Chapel Street to admire the colour effect of some enamelled candlesticks against a length of orange cretonne, and his hand went towards the pocket in which was the newspaper. "It's too dark to read it here," he muttered, and walked on, carrying the paper in his hand. It was just six o'clock, and the public-house opposite the Serendipity shop was lighting up. If he went inside he would be able to read the paper there. But he didn't go inside. He continued his way through Market Place and across Curzon Street to the post office in Queen Street, where he dropped Agatha's letter in the box. This done, he stood in an attitude of indecision for a minute or two, then, with an effort that left him rather breathless, he drew near the open door through which a light streamed and unfolded the newspaper. His hands shook, and for a moment the print danced under his eyes. But presently a name separated itself from the blurred characters, the name he had expected to see, and he knew it would not now be necessary to pay the call he had planned to make on the morrow. Perhaps he had some intention of paying it this evening, for his feet, when he left the post office, led him towards the house in Curzon Street, where Katherine had spent the years of her childless widowhood. As he went he thought, "I wish I'd gone to see her," and those quarter-days, when a cheque for fifty pounds had appeared with clockwork like punctuality by the first post, became so many poignant stabs of recollection. He had sometimes felt aggrieved that the cheque had not been bigger, but at this moment he could find a score of reasons why there should have been no cheque at all. It was hard on Katherine having a brother like himself, living just round the corner. She had tried to carry it off by making a joke of it, but the joke, he suspected, rather hung fire. There was a peach-coloured sky in the west, and the electric arcs multiplied themselves down the misty street like a string of giant opals. The tall house with the balconies and the shrubs in green boxes loomed ahead, and his pace slowed. The blinds were all down, and there was a light in one of the upper windows. He supposed he ought to go in. There was no one but himself to represent the dead woman. But he did not want to go in. He could not face the loquacious housekeeper to-night. To-morrow--yes, on second thoughts, he would have, after all, to keep that resolution to call at Curzon Street on the morrow, but the errand would be strangely different. He had meant to make the visit an occasion for saying certain kind things to his sister, but, as usual, he had let the opportunity slip. It had gone to swell the ranks of all those other lost chances of his life, and once again he was met by those saddest of all sad words, "Too late". CHAPTER XIV CARRINGTON MEWS, _12th March._