“Of course; don’t be so stupid, you old Dick!”

She ran forward as the train began to move; her clear “Good-bye!” sounded shrill and hard above the rumble of the wheels.  He saw her raise her hand, an umbrella waving, and last of all, vivid still amongst receding shapes, the red spot of her scarlet tam-o’-shanter.

CHAPTER III

A ZOOLOGICAL GARDEN

After his journey up from Dover, Shelton was still fathering his luggage at Charing Cross, when the foreign girl passed him, and, in spite of his desire to say something cheering, he could get nothing out but a shame-faced smile.  Her figure vanished, wavering into the hurly-burly; one of his bags had gone astray, and so all thought of her soon faded from his mind.  His cab, however, overtook the foreign vagrant marching along towards Pall Mall with a curious, lengthy stride—­an observant, disillusioned figure.

The first bustle of installation over, time hung heavy on his hands.  July loomed distant, as in some future century; Antonia’s eyes beckoned him faintly, hopelessly.  She would not even be coming back to England for another month.

. . .  I met a young foreigner in the train from Dover [he wrote to her]—­a curious sort of person altogether, who seems to have infected me.  Everything here has gone flat and unprofitable; the only good things in life are your letters . . . .  John Noble dined with me yesterday; the poor fellow tried to persuade me to stand for Parliament.  Why should I think myself fit to legislate for the unhappy wretches one sees about in the streets?  If people’s faces are a fair test of their happiness, I’ d rather not feel in any way responsible . . . .

The streets, in fact, after his long absence in the East, afforded him much food for thought:  the curious smugness of the passers-by; the utterly unending bustle; the fearful medley of miserable, over-driven women, and full-fed men, with leering, bull-beef eyes, whom he saw everywhere—­in club windows, on their beats, on box seats, on the steps of hotels, discharging dilatory duties; the appalling chaos of hard-eyed, capable dames with defiant clothes, and white-cheeked hunted-looking men; of splendid creatures in their cabs, and cadging creatures in their broken hats—­the callousness and the monotony!

One afternoon in May he received this letter couched in French: 

                                   3, Blank row
          
                              Westminster. 
My dear sir,