Except that once or twice he drew a face on blotting-paper and smeared it over, he remained normally attentive to his “lud” and the matters in hand all day, conducted without error the examination of two witnesses and with terror the cross-examination of one; lunched at the Courts in perfect amity with the sucking barrister on the other side of the case, for they had neither, as yet, reached that maturity which enables an advocate to call his enemy his “friend,” and treat him with considerable asperity.  Though among his acquaintances Summerhay always provoked badinage, in which he was scarcely ever defeated, yet in chambers and court, on circuit, at his club, in society or the hunting-field, he had an unfavourable effect on the grosser sort of stories.  There are men—­by no means strikingly moral—­who exercise this blighting influence.  They are generally what the French call “spirituel,” and often have rather desperate love-affairs which they keep very closely to themselves.

When at last in chambers, he had washed off that special reek of clothes, and parchment, far-away herrings, and distemper, which clings about the law, dipping his whole curly head in water, and towelling vigorously, he set forth alone along the Embankment, his hat tilted up, smoking a cigar.  It was nearly seven.  Just this time yesterday he had got into the train, just this time yesterday turned and seen the face which had refused to leave him since.  Fever recurs at certain hours, just so did the desire to see her mount within him, becoming an obsession, because it was impossible to gratify it.  One could not call at seven o’clock!  The idea of his club, where at this time of day he usually went, seemed flat and stale, until he remembered that he might pass up Bury Street to get to it.  But, near Charing Cross, a hand smote him on the shoulder, and the voice of one of his intimates said: 

“Halo, Bryan!”

Odd, that he had never noticed before how vacuous this fellow was—­with his talk of politics, and racing, of this ass and that ass—­subjects hitherto of primary importance!  And, stopping suddenly, he drawled out: 

“Look here, old chap, you go on; see you at the club—­presently.”

“Why?  What’s up?”

With his lazy smile, Summerhay answered: 

“‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,’” and turned on his heel.

When his friend had disappeared, he resumed his journey toward Bury Street.  He passed his boot shop, where, for some time, he had been meaning to order two pairs, and went by thinking:  ’I wonder where she goes for things.’  Her figure came to him so vividly—­sitting back in that corner, or standing by the cab, her hand in his.  The blood rushed up in his cheeks.  She had been scented like flowers, and—­and a rainy wind!  He stood still before a plate-glass window, in confusion, and suddenly muttered aloud:  “Damn it!  I believe I am!” An old gentleman, passing, turned so suddenly, to see what he was, that he ricked his neck.