The fogs passed all too soon into a hard frost, into nights of starlight and presently moonlight, when the lamps looked hard, flashing like rows of yellow gems, and their reflections and the glare of the shop windows were sharp and frosty, and even the stars hard and bright, snapping noiselessly (if one may say so) instead of twinkling.  A jacket trimmed with imitation Astrachan replaced Ethel’s lighter coat, and a round cap of Astrachan her hat, and her eyes shone hard and bright, and her forehead was broad and white beneath it.  It was exhilarating, but one got home too soon, and so the way from Chelsea to Clapham was lengthened, first into a loop of side streets, and then when the first pulverulent snows told that Christmas was at hand, into a new loop down King’s Road, and once even through the Brompton Road and Sloane Street, where the shops were full of decorations and entertaining things.

And, under circumstances of infinite gravity, Mr. Lewisham secretly spent three-and-twenty shillings out of the vestiges of that hundred pounds, and bought Ethel a little gold ring set with pearls.  With that there must needs be a ceremonial, and on the verge of the snowy, foggy Common she took off her glove and the ring was placed on her finger.  Whereupon he was moved to kiss her—­on the frost-pink knuckle next to an inky nail.

“It’s silly of us,” she said.  “What can we do?—­ever?”

“You wait.” he said, and his tone was full of vague promises.

Afterwards he thought over those promises, and another evening went into the matter more fully, telling her of all the brilliant things that he held it was possible for a South Kensington student to do and be—­of headmasterships, northern science schools, inspectorships, demonstratorships, yea, even professorships.  And then, and then—­To all of which she lent a willing and incredulous ear, finding in that dreaming a quality of fear as well as delight.

The putting on of the pearl-set ring was mere ceremonial, of course; she could not wear it either at Lagune’s or at home, so instead she threaded it on a little white satin ribbon and wore it round her neck—­“next her heart.”  He thought of it there warm “next her heart.”

When he had bought the ring he had meant to save it for Christmas before he gave it to her.  But the desire to see her pleasure had been too strong for him.

Christmas Eve, I know not by what deceit on her part, these young people spent together all day.  Lagune was down with a touch of bronchitis and had given his typewriter a holiday.  Perhaps she forgot to mention it at home.  The Royal College was in vacation and Lewisham was free.  He declined the plumber’s invitation; “work” kept him in London, he said, though it meant a pound or more of added expenditure.  These absurd young people walked sixteen miles that Christmas Eve, and parted warm and glowing.  There had been a hard frost and a little snow, the sky was a colourless grey, icicles hung from the arms of the street lamps, and the pavements were patterned out with frond-like forms that were trodden into slides as the day grew older.  The Thames they knew was a wonderful sight, but that they kept until last.  They went first along the Brompton Road....