Later, much later, when the lamps in the street and the square found themselves, with no visible transition, lighting night-time as they had lighted day--when the hansoms began to swing the early diners along to their destinations, a hansom drew up before No. ----, Portman Square. It was at the hour soft-footed London had ceased to roll its rubber tires down the little street, and only an occasional cab slipped by unheard. But a small hand cart on which a piano organ was installed wheeled by No. ----, Portman Square, and stopped directly under the Sorghams' window and a man began to sing: "I'll sing thee songs of Araby And tales of old Cashmere." The creature was singing for his living, for his supper doubtless, certainly for his breakfast, but he chanced to possess a remarkable gift and he evidently loved his trade. The silence--wherein all London appeared to listen, the quiet wherein the magically suspended room had swung and swung until even Bulstrode's clear mind and good sense began fatally to blur and swing with the pendulant room--was broken into by the song. And as Bulstrode moved and turned away his eyes from the woman's lovely face, she sighed and covered her own eyes with her hands. The small coffee table had been taken away. Mrs. Falconer was in a low chair leaning forwards, her hands lying loosely in her lap. The distance between the two his hand could have bridged in one gesture. The voice of the street singer was superb, liquid and sweet. He sang his ballad well. "I'll sing thee songs of Araby And tales of old Cashmere." Mrs. Falconer's guest rose. "You'll come down for Christmas," he said, "and I'll meet you as we have arranged, to-morrow." "Jimmy," she protested, "it's only ten o'clock." "I must, however, go." "Nonsense. Where will you pass the next hour and a half? There's not a cat in town." "Nevertheless, I promised a man to meet him at the...." "_Jimmy_!" He had reached the door, making his way with a dogged determination and, like a man who has touched terra firma after months on a dancing brig, still not feeling quite sure of the land or its tricks. "How you hurry from me," she said softly. "Oh, I'm hurrying off," he explained brightly, "because I want to get hold of that chap out there and take him to supper, and to find out why he isn't on the operatic stage. He's got a jolly voice. Good night, good night." He was gone from her with scant courtesy and a brusquerie she knew well, adored and hated! During these last years she had done her cruel best, her wicked best, to soften and change and break it down.