She did not come into sight.  Apparently she had not gone round by the post office after all.  It made one wonder where she had gone.  Did she go up through the town to the avenue on these occasions?...  Then abruptly a cloud drove across the sunlight, the glowing street went cold and Mr. Lewisham’s imagination submitted to control.  So “Mater saeva cupidinum,” “The untamable mother of desires,”—­Horace (Book ii. of the Odes) was the author appointed by the university for Mr. Lewisham’s matriculation—­was, after all, translated to its prophetic end.

Precisely as the church clock struck five Mr. Lewisham, with a punctuality that was indeed almost too prompt for a really earnest student, shut his Horace, took up his Shakespeare, and descended the narrow, curved, uncarpeted staircase that led from his garret to the living room in which he had his tea with his landlady, Mrs. Munday.  That good lady was alone, and after a few civilities Mr. Lewisham opened his Shakespeare and read from a mark onward—­that mark, by-the-bye, was in the middle of a scene—­while he consumed mechanically a number of slices of bread and whort jam.

Mrs. Munday watched him over her spectacles and thought how bad so much reading must be for the eyes, until the tinkling of her shop-bell called her away to a customer.  At twenty-five minutes to six he put the book back in the window-sill, dashed a few crumbs from his jacket, assumed a mortar-board cap that was lying on the tea-caddy, and went forth to his evening “preparation duty.”

The West Street was empty and shining golden with the sunset.  Its beauty seized upon him, and he forgot to repeat the passage from Henry VIII. that should have occupied him down the street.  Instead he was presently thinking of that insubordinate glance from his window and of little chins and nose-tips.  His eyes became remote in their expression....

The school door was opened by an obsequious little boy with “lines” to be examined.

Mr. Lewisham felt a curious change of atmosphere on his entry.  The door slammed behind him.  The hall with its insistent scholastic suggestions, its yellow marbled paper, its long rows of hat-pegs, its disreputable array of umbrellas, a broken mortar-board and a tattered and scattered Principia, seemed dim and dull in contrast with the luminous stir of the early March evening outside.  An unusual sense of the greyness of a teacher’s life, of the greyness indeed of the life of all studious souls came, and went in his mind.  He took the “lines,” written painfully over three pages of exercise book, and obliterated them with a huge G.E.L., scrawled monstrously across each page.  He heard the familiar mingled noises of the playground drifting in to him through the open schoolroom door.

CHAPTER II.

“As the wind blows.”