The name sounded to Warburton as if from a remote past. He repeated it several times to himself. They stood with face turned toward the lurid south. The air was very still. From away down the river sounded the bells of Lambeth Church, their volleying clang softened by distance to a monotonous refrain, drearily at one with the sadness of the falling night. Warburton heard them, yet heard them not; all external sounds blended with that within him, which was the furious beating of his heart. He moved a hand as if to touch Rosamund's, but let it fall as she spoke. "I'm afraid I must go. It's really raining--" Neither had an umbrella. Big drops were beginning to splash on the pavement. Warburton felt one upon his nose. "To-morrow," he uttered thickly, his tongue hot and dry, his lips quivering. "Yes, if it's fine," replied Rosamund. "Early in the afternoon?" "I can't. I must go and see Bertha." They were walking at a quick step, and already getting wet. "At this hour then," panted Will. "Yes." Lambeth bells were lost amid a hollow boom of distant thunder. "I must run," cried Rosamund. "Good-bye." He followed, keeping her in sight until she entered the house. Then he turned and walked like a madman through the hissing rain--walked he knew not whither--his being a mere erratic chaos, a symbol of Nature's prime impulse whirling amid London's multitudes. CHAPTER 35 Tired and sullen after the journey home from the seaside, Mrs. Cross kept her room. In the little bay-windowed parlour, Bertha Cross and Rosamund Elvan sat talking confidentially. "Now, do confess," urged she of the liquid eyes and sentimental accent. "This is a little plot of yours--all in kindness, of course. You thought it best--you somehow brought him to it?" Half laughing, Bertha shook her head. "I haven't seen him for quite a long time. And do you really think this kind of plotting is in my way? It would as soon have occurred to me to try and persuade Mr. Franks to join the fire-brigade." "Bertha! You don't mean anything by that? You don't think I am a danger to him?" "No, no, no! To tell you the truth, I have tried to think just as little about it as possible, one way or the other. Third persons never do any good in such cases, and more often than not get into horrid scrapes." "Fortunately," said Rosamund, after musing a moment with her chin on her hand, "I'm sure he isn't serious. It's his good-nature, his sense of honour. I think all the better of him for it. When he understands that I'm in earnest, we shall just be friends again, real friends." "Then you are in earnest?" asked Bertha, her eyelids winking mirthfully. Rosamund's reply was a very grave nod, after which she gazed awhile at vacancy. "But," resumed Bertha, after reading her friend's face, "you have not succeeded in making him understand yet?"