With his hand in one pocket, his hat drawn a little over his brow, he sauntered, with heavy and reluctant step, up Renfield Street, in the direction of Sauchiehall Street.  He did not know what tempted him to choose the opposite direction from his home.  We are often so led, apparently aimlessly, towards what may change the very current of our lives.  The streets, though quieter as he walked farther West, were by no means deserted, and just on the stroke of eleven the people from the theatres and public-houses made the tide of life flow again, apparently in an endless stream.  Quite suddenly, under the brilliant light thrown by the illumination of a fashionable tavern, Walter saw standing on the edge of the pavement, talking to another girl, his sister Liz.  He could not believe his eyes at first, for he had never credited the assertion of Gladys that she had really seen her, but believed it had been a mistake.  But there she was, well dressed, stylish, and beautiful exceedingly.  Even in that first startled look he was struck by the exquisite outline, of her face, the absolute purity of her colour, except where it burned a brilliant red on her cheeks.

He stepped back into a doorway, and stood silently waiting till they should separate, or move away.  To his relief, they, separated at last, the stranger moving towards him, Liz proceeding westward.  He followed her, keeping a few steps behind her, watching her with a detective’s eye.  Once a man spoke to her, but she gave no answer, and somehow that to Walter was a relief.  He felt himself growing quite excited, longing to overtake and speak to her, yet afraid.  At the corner of Cambridge Street she stood still, apparently looking for a car; then Walter stepped before her, and laid his hand on her arm.

‘Liz,’ he said, and in spite of himself his voice shook, ’what are you doing here?’

Liz gave a great start, and her pallor vanished, the red mounting high to her brow.

’I—­I don’t know.  It’s you, Wat?  Upon my word, I didna ken ye; ye are sic a swell.’

’I heard you were in Glasgow, but I didn’t believe it.  Where have you been all this time?’

‘To Maryhill; I’m bidin’ there the noo,’ Liz answered defiantly, though she was inwardly trembling.

‘Maryhill?’ Walter repeated, and his eye, sharp with suspicion, dwelt searchingly on her face.  ‘What are you doing there?’

‘That’s my business,’ she answered lightly.  ’I needna ask for you; I see you are flourishin’.  Hoo’s the auld folk?  I say, here’s my car.  Guid-nicht.’

She would have darted from him, but he gripped her by the arm.

’You won’t go, Liz, till I know where and how you are living.  I have the right to ask.  Come home with me.’

Liz was surprised, arrested, and the car, with its noisy jingle, swept round the corner.

‘Hame wi’ you!’ she repeated.  ’Maybe, if ye kent, ye wadna ask me, wadna speak to me,’ she said, with a melancholy bitterness, and then her cough, more hollow and more racking than of yore, prevented further speech.