“You have been away,” he said, when they were in their places, he at one side of Eve, Patty on the other.

“Yes.  At Dudley.”

“Did you see Mrs. Brewer?”

“Several times.  She hasn’t got another lodger yet, and wishes you would go back again.  A most excellent character she gave you.”

This sounded satirical.

“I deserved the best she could say of me,” Hilliard answered.

Eve glanced at him, smiled doubtfully, and turned to talk with Patty Ringrose.  Through the evening there was no further mention of Dudley.  Eve could with difficulty be induced to converse at all, and when the entertainment was over she pointedly took leave of him within the theatre.  But while shaking hands with Patty, he saw something in that young lady’s face which caused him to nod and smile.

CHAPTER IX

There came an afternoon early in July when Hilliard, tired with a long ramble in search of old City churches—­his architectural interests never failed—­sought rest and coolness in a Fleet Street tavern of time-honoured name.  It was long since he had yielded to any extravagance; to-day his palate demanded wine, and with wine he solaced it.  When he went forth again into the roaring highway things glowed before him in a mellow light:  the sounds of Fleet Street made music to his ears; he looked with joyous benignity into the faces of men and women, and nowhere discovered a countenance inharmonious with his gallant mood.

No longer weary, he strolled westward, content with the satisfactions of each passing moment.  “This,” he said to himself, “is the joy of life.  Past and future are alike powerless over me; I live in the glorious sunlight of this summer day, under the benediction of a greathearted wine.  Noble wine!  Friend of the friendless, companion of the solitary, lifter-up of hearts that are oppressed, inspirer of brave thoughts in them that fail beneath the burden of being.  Thanks to thee, O priceless wine!”

A bookseller’s window arrested him.  There, open to the gaze of every pedestrian, stood a volume of which the sight made him thrill with rapture; a finely illustrated folio, a treatise on the Cathedrals of France.  Five guineas was the price it bore.  A moment’s lingering, restrained by some ignoble spirit of thrift which the wine had not utterly overcome, and he entered the shop.  He purchased the volume.  It would have pleased him to carry it away, but in mere good-nature he allowed the shopman’s suggestion to prevail, and gave his address that the great tome might be sent to him.

How cheap it was—­five guineas for so much instant delight and such boundless joy of anticipation!

On one of the benches in Trafalgar Square he sat for a long time watching the fountains, and ever and anon letting them lead his eyes upwards to the great snowy clouds that gleamed upon the profound blue.  Some ragged children were at play near him; he searched his pocket, collected coppers and small silver, and with a friendly cry of “Holloa, you ragamuffins!” scattered amazement and delight.