later its wanderings grew still more perplexing, and she was not sure that it had not been joined in some strange way by another river.  But flowing round a low-lying field, coming suddenly from behind a bend in the land, it had seemed in that place like a pond.  One bank was lined with bushes, the other lay open to a view of a treeless plain divided by ditches.  Three ladies had held their light boat in the deep current, and she had wondered who they were, and what was their manner of living and their desires, and though she would never know these things, the image of these ladies in their boat had fixed itself in her mind for ever.

Soon after the train began to slacken speed, and nervously she awaited her destiny.

For she was uncertain whether she would send Ulick a telegram, telling him to come to Park Lane, or whether she would drive straight to his lodgings.  At the bottom of her heart she knew that when she arrived at St. Pancras she would tell the cabman, “Queen’s Square, Bloomsbury.”  And an hour later, nervous with expectation, she sat in the cab, seeing the streets pass behind her.  She was beginning to know the characteristics of the neighbourhood, and in the afternoon light they awoke her out of a trembling lethargy.  She recognised the old iron gateway, the open space, the thirsty fountain and the troop of neglected children.  She liked the forlorn and rusty square.  She experienced a sort of sinking anguish while waiting on the doorstep, lest he might not be at home.  But when the servant girl said Mr. Dean was upstairs, she liked her dirty, good-natured smile, and she loved the stairs and banisters—­it was all wonderful, and she could hardly believe that in a few moments more she would catch the first sight of his face.  She would have to tell some part of the truth; and since Lady Asher was dead, he could not fail to believe.  He would never think of asking her—­she put the ugly thought aside, and ran up the second flight.

In the pauses of their love-making, they often wandered round the walls participating in the mystery of the Wanderers, and the sempiternal loveliness of figures who stood with raised arms, by the streams of Paradise.  It seemed a profanation to turn from these aspirations to the enjoyment of material love, and Evelyn looked at Ulick questioningly.  But he said that life only became wrong when it ceased to aspire.  In an Indian temple, it had once been asked who was the most holy man of all.  A young saint who had not eaten for ten days had been pointed out, but he said that the holiest man who ever lived stood yonder.  It was then noticed that the man pointed to was drunk ...  Ulick explained that the drunkenness did not matter; it was an unimportant detail in the man’s life, for none aspired as he did; and laughing at the story, they stood by the dusty, windy pane, her hand resting on his shoulder, and they always remembered that that day they had seen the foliage in the square.