She removes her hand, turns her pale face towards him as he walks silently to the door, and stops him once again as he is about to open it.

“Do you intend to remain in the house any time?  I heard you were writing in the library.  Are you going to return there?”

“Only for my hat.  I am going home.”

She bows her eyes rather than her head, the movement is so slight and curious, and he withdraws.  Clear of the room he looks at his watch but is inclined to doubt it by a minute or thereabouts.  There is a splendid clock upon the staircase, famous, as splendid clocks not often are, for its accuracy.  “And what do you say,” Mr. Tulkinghorn inquires, referring to it.  “What do you say?”

If it said now, “Don’t go home!” What a famous clock, hereafter, if it said to-night of all the nights that it has counted off, to this old man of all the young and old men who have ever stood before it, “Don’t go home!” With its sharp clear bell it strikes three quarters after seven and ticks on again.  “Why, you are worse than I thought you,” says Mr. Tulkinghorn, muttering reproof to his watch.  “Two minutes wrong?  At this rate you won’t last my time.”  What a watch to return good for evil if it ticked in answer, “Don’t go home!”

He passes out into the streets and walks on, with his hands behind him, under the shadow of the lofty houses, many of whose mysteries, difficulties, mortgages, delicate affairs of all kinds, are treasured up within his old black satin waistcoat.  He is in the confidence of the very bricks and mortar.  The high chimney-stacks telegraph family secrets to him.  Yet there is not a voice in a mile of them to whisper, “Don’t go home!”

Through the stir and motion of the commoner streets; through the roar and jar of many vehicles, many feet, many voices; with the blazing shop-lights lighting him on, the west wind blowing him on, and the crowd pressing him on, he is pitilessly urged upon his way, and nothing meets him murmuring, “Don’t go home!” Arrived at last in his dull room to light his candles, and look round and up, and see the Roman pointing from the ceiling, there is no new significance in the Roman’s hand to-night or in the flutter of the attendant groups to give him the late warning, “Don’t come here!”

It is a moonlight night, but the moon, being past the full, is only now rising over the great wilderness of London.  The stars are shining as they shone above the turret-leads at Chesney Wold.  This woman, as he has of late been so accustomed to call her, looks out upon them.  Her soul is turbulent within her; she is sick at heart and restless.  The large rooms are too cramped and close.  She cannot endure their restraint and will walk alone in a neighbouring garden.