He went off laughing, and his friend sat down again by the fireside.

Half an hour passed.  The fire had burnt low, and the room was quite dark.  At length, Hilliard bestirred himself.  He lit the lamp, drew down the blind, and seated himself at the table to write.  With great rapidity he covered four sides of note-paper, and addressed an envelope.  But he had no postage-stamp.  It could be obtained at a tobacconist’s.

So he went out, and turned towards a little shop hard by.  But when he had stamped the letter he felt undecided about posting it.  Eve had promised to come to-morrow with Patty.  If she again failed him it would be time enough to write.  If she kept her promise the presence of a third person would be an intolerable restraint upon him.  Yet why?  Patty might as well know all, and act as judge between them.  There needed little sagacity to arbitrate in a matter such as this.

To sit at home was impossible.  He walked for the sake of walking, straight on, without object.  Down the long gas-lit perspective of Bradford Street, with its closed, silent workshops, across the miserable little river Rea—­canal rather than river, sewer rather than canal—­up the steep ascent to St. Martin’s and the Bull Ring, and the bronze Nelson, dripping with dirty moisture; between the big buildings of New Street, and so to the centre of the town.  At the corner by the Post Office he stood in idle contemplation.  Rain was still falling, but lightly.  The great open space gleamed with shafts of yellow radiance reflected on wet asphalt from the numerous lamps.  There was little traffic.  An omnibus clattered by, and a tottery cab, both looking rain-soaked.  Near the statue of Peel stood a hansom, the forlorn horse crooking his knees and hanging his hopeless head.  The Town Hall colonnade sheltered a crowd of people, who were waiting for the rain to stop, that they might spend their Sunday evening, as usual, in rambling about the streets.  Within the building, which showed light through all its long windows, a religious meeting was in progress, and hundreds of voices peeled forth a rousing hymn, fortified with deeper organ-note.

Hilliard noticed that as rain-drops fell on the heated globes of the street-lamps they were thrown off again in little jets and puffs of steam.  This phenomenon amused him for several minutes.  He wondered that he had never observed it before.

Easter Sunday.  The day had its importance for a Christian mind.  Did Eve think about that?  Perhaps her association with him, careless as he was in all such matters, had helped to blunt her religious feeling.  Yet what hope was there, in such a world as this, that she would retain the pieties of her girlhood?

Easter Sunday.  As he walked on, he pondered the Christian story, and tried to make something out of it.  Had it any significance for him?  Perhaps, for he had never consciously discarded the old faith; he had simply let it fall out of his mind.  But a woman ought to have religious convictions.  Yes; he saw the necessity of that.  Better for him if Eve were in the Town Hall yonder, joining her voice with those that sang.