Towards evening the pangs faded altogether. But incidents of years ago recurred to her without any effort of the will, impelling her to cry feebly at the recollection of some unkind answer that she had once given, at a hurt expression that she saw again on her father's face. During the night her troubles were reflected in her dreams, and at morning she woke hollow-eyed. It was labour to her to dress. But she did not feel hungry, she felt only dazed. She drank a glassful of water from the bottle on the wash-hand-stand, and, driven to exertion by necessity, took her way to the publishers', moving among the crowd torpidly, not acutely conscious of her surroundings. Mr. Collins exclaimed at her appearance and strongly advised her to go home and rest. "You don't look the thing at all," he said with genuine concern. "Stay indoors to-day; you won't do any good if you're not well." She smiled wistfully at his idea that staying indoors would improve matters. "I shan't be any better for not going out," she said. "Yes, give me the list. Only don't expect me to come in and report; I shan't feel much like doing that." He wrote a few names for her. "I shan't give you many to-day," he said. "Here are half a dozen; try these!" "Thank you," said Mary; "I'll try these." She went down, and out into the street once more. The rattle of the traffic roared in her ears; the jam and jostle of the pavements confused her. She felt like a child buffeted by giants, and could have lifted her arms, wailing to God to let the end be now--to let her die quickly and quietly, and without much pain. CHAPTER V On the third floor of a house in Delahay Street there used to be a room which was at once sitting-room and "workshop." A blue plate here and there over the mirror, the shabby arm-chair on the hearth, and a modest collection of books on the wall, gave it an air of home. The long white table, littered with plans and paints, before the window, and a theodolite in the corner, showed that it served for office too. A man familiar with that interior had just entered the passage, and as he began to ascend the stairs a smile of anticipated welcome softened the rigidity of his face. He was a tall, loosely-built man, who was generally credited with five more years than the two-and-thirty he had really seen; a man who, a physiognomist would have asserted, formed few friendships and was a stanch friend. Possibly it was the gauntness of the face that caused him to appear older than he was, possibly its gravity. He did not look as if he laughed readily, as if he saw much in life to laugh at. He did not look impulsive, or emotional, or a man to be imagined singing a song. He could be pictured the one cool figure in a scene of panic with greater facility than participating in the enthusiasm of a grand-stand. Not that you found his aspect heroic, but that you could not conceive him excited.