On the first afternoon of my new liberty I found myself in the Nevski Prospect, bewildered by the crowds and the talk and trams and motors and carts that passed in unending sequence up and down the long street.  Standing at the corner of the Sadovia and the Nevski one was carried straight to the point of the golden spire that guarded the farther end of the great street.  All was gold, the surface of the road was like a golden stream, the canal was gold, the thin spire caught into its piercing line all the colour of the swiftly fading afternoon; the wheels of the carriages gleamed, the flower-baskets of the women glittered like shining foam, the snow flung its crystal colour into the air like thin fire dim before the sun.  The street seemed to have gathered on to its pavements the citizens of every country under the sun.  Tartars, Mongols, Little Russians, Chinamen, Japanese, French officers, British officers, peasants and fashionable women, schoolboys, officials, actors and artists and business men and priests and sailors and beggars and hawkers and, guarding them all, friendly, urbane, filled with a pleasant self-importance that seemed at that hour the simplest and easiest of attitudes, the Police.  “Rum—­rum—­rum—­whirr—­whirr—­whirr—­whirr”—­like the regular beat of a shuttle the hum rose and fell, as the sun faded into rosy mist and white vapours stole above the still canals.

I turned to go home and felt some one touch my elbow.

I swung round and there, his broad face ruddy with the cold, was Jerry
Lawrence.

I was delighted to see him and told him so.

“Well, I’m damned glad,” he said gruffly.  “I thought you might have a grudge against me.”

“A grudge?” I said.  “Why?”

“Haven’t been to see you.  Heard you were ill, but didn’t think you’d want me hanging round.”

“Why this modesty?” I asked.

“No—­well—­you know what I mean.”  He shuffled his feet.  “No good in a sick-room.”

“Mine wasn’t exactly a sick-room,” I said.  “But I heard that you did come.”

“Yes.  I came twice,” he answered, looking at me shyly.  “Your old woman wouldn’t let me see you.”

“Never mind that,” I said; “let’s have an evening together soon.”

“Yes—­as soon as you like.”  He looked up and down the street.  “There are some things I’d like to ask your advice about.”

“Certainly,” I said.

“What do you say to coming and dining at my place?  Ever met Wilderling?”

“Wilderling?” I could not remember for the moment the name.

“Yes—­the old josser I live with.  Fine old man—­got a point of view of his own!”

“Delighted,” I said.

“To-morrow.  Eight o’clock.  Don’t dress.”

He was just going off when he turned again.

“Awfully glad you’re better,” he said.  He cleared his throat, looked at me in a very friendly way, then smiled.

“Awfully glad you’re better,” he repeated, then went off, rolling his broad figure into the evening mist.