“Well, you ain’t obstructing the traffic,” he replied good-humouredly; and again he left the man alone, who reseated himself on the shady steps, as if disinclined to stir from comfortable quarters. But the spell of his meditations had been broken. He leaned his head against the stone pillar of the balustrade and tried to think of occupation for the day. He longed for to-morrow, when he could resume his weary search for work, interrupted since Saturday noon. At first he had plunged into the hopeless task with feverish anxiety, humiliated by rebuffs, agonised through the frustration of idle hopes. Now it had grown mechanical, a daily routine, devoid of pain or joy, to drag himself through the busy streets from office to office and from shop to shop. He resented the Sunday cessation of work, as interfering with the tenor of his life. This Bank Holiday added another Sunday to the week. The heat and glare and soundless solitude of the street made him drowsy. The thought of death passed through him: an euthanasia--to fade there peacefully out of existence. And then to be picked up dead on a doorstep--a fitting end. _Finis coronat opus_. He sniffed cynically at the idea. The minutes passed. The shade gradually encroached upon the sunlight of the pavement. A cat from one of the great deserted houses drew near with meditative step, smelt his boots, and, in the bored manner of her tribe, curled herself up to slumber. A butcher’s cart rattling past awoke the man, and he bent down and stroked the creature at his feet. Then he became aware of a figure approaching him, along the pavement--a tiny woman, neatly dressed. He watched her idly, with lack-lustre gaze. But when she came within distance of salutation, their eyes met, and each started in recognition. He rose hurriedly and made a step as if to cross the road, but the little lady stopped still. “Stephen Chisely!” She moved forward and laid a detaining touch upon his arm, and looked up questioningly into his face:-- “Won’t you speak to me?” The voice was so soft and musical, the intonation so winning, that he checked his impulse of flight; but he stared at her half bewildered. “You haven’t forgotten me--Yvonne Latour?” she continued. “Forgotten you? No,” he replied, slowly. “But I am not accustomed to being recognised.” “The world is very full of hateful people,” she said. “Oh! how wretchedly ill you are looking! That was why you were sitting down on the doorstep. My poor fellow!” There was a suggestion of tears in her eyes. He turned his head away quickly. “You mustn’t talk to me like that,” he said, huskily. “I’m not fit for you to speak to. When I went under, I went under--for good and all. Good-bye, Madame Latour--and God bless you for saying a kind word to me.” “Why need you go away? Walk a little with me, won’t you? We can go along to the Park and sit quietly and talk.” “Do you really mean it--that you would walk with me--in the public streets?”