That lightened his heart. To have confessed his failure was already in some sort to justify it, and though the cloud upon his mind had grown darker, he was sensible of a release of feeling. He could breathe again. He was no longer the cramped, huddled creature that he had been all day. He could rejoice as the sky grew dark and the stars came out and the glow of the great city went up into the sky. There were patches in the sky so lurid that they filled him with alarm that they must mean fire. He moved toward one of those lurid patches and found himself presently in a narrow thoroughfare crowded with men and women, youths and maidens. The street was streaked with light and darkness. Cheap bazaars were thronged; shops filled with automatic machines of entertainment were garishly lit; there were butchers' and greengrocers' shops open to the air, blazing with color under electric and naphtha lamps; there were stalls in the road, barrows of artificial flowers; white kinematograph houses; terra-cotta music-halls and theaters; crimson-tiled and green-brick public-houses; swarms of human beings, talking, laughing, singing, the laughter of excited girls. He shrank within himself from the harsh vitality of it all. He was filled with a dread of calling down some of the laughter upon himself. The road grew narrower, the wheeled traffic more congested; the yellow and red trams seemed to fill the street. Motor-cars, trams, carts, all moved slowly and cautiously. A little girl started to move across the road, her eyes fixed on someone or something she had seen on the other side. Another step and she would be under a motor-car. René moved to save her. At the same moment, from the other side, he saw a young woman dart out, catch the child up, fling her back, and rush on in her own impetus. She slipped in the tramline, and almost fell just within his reach. He caught her arm, pulled her up, and dragged both her and the child back to his own side of the road. The traffic moved on and no one seemed to have seen what had happened. The child saw her opportunity and dashed over in safety, leaving René and the young woman together. "A near thing that," said he. "I think I've hurt my foot. I slipped on the tramline. They do stick up just here." "Can you walk?" She tried, but twisted up her face with the pain of it. "O-o-oh! Crimes! Let me hold on to you." He supported her, and she found that she could just hobble. "Rotten luck!" she said. "I was going to a dance. Don't you love dancing? Just like me, though; if there's ever any trouble going, I get it. I shall have to go home now." "Is it far?" "Not far. The busses go by. Any old bus from that corner." They had come to a circus where many roads meet. "Mitcham Mews. Number six. Don't you trouble. You just put me into the bus." "But I must see you home." "I 'spect you got someone waiting for you. 'Tain't fair to spoil your fun." "This is much better fun than anything I can imagine doing!"