of parental neglect.  Hugh did not often meditate upon such things, but just now he felt impatience and disgust with women who would not care properly for their children.  Poor old Rolfe’s wife, for instance, what business had she to be running at large about London, giving concerts, making herself ill and ugly, whilst her little son was left to a governess and servants!  He had half a mind to write a letter to old Rolfe.  But no; that kind of thing was too dangerous, even between the nearest friends.  Men must not quarrel; women did more than enough of that.  Sibyl and Alma had as good as fallen out; the less they saw of each other the better.  And now he had to face a woman, perhaps dying, who would doubtless rail by the hour at her own daughter.

O heaven! for a breath of air on sea or mountain or prairie!  Could he stand this life much longer?

Driving to Waterloo, he thought of Mrs. Larkfield’s bequest to the charitable institution.  Six hundred pounds might be a paltry income, but one could make use of it.  A year ago, to be sure, he would have felt more troubled by the loss; at present he had reason to look forward hopefully, so far as money could represent hope.  The cycle business was moving; as likely as not, it would ultimately enrich him.  There was news, too, from that fellow Dando in Queensland, who declared that his smelting process, gradually improved, had begun to yield results, and talked of starting a new company.  Hugh’s business of the morning had been in this connection:  by inquiry in the City he had learnt that Dando’s report might be relied upon, and that capital which had seemingly vanished would certainly yield a small dividend this year.  He was thankful that he could face Mrs. Larkfield without the shame of interested motives.  Let her do what she liked with her money; he went to see the woman merely out of humane feeling, sense of duty; and assuredly no fortune-hunter had ever imposed upon himself a more distasteful office.

On alighting at the station, he found that the only coin, other than gold, which he had in his pocket was a shilling.  In accordance with usage, he would have given the cabman an extra sixpence, had he possessed it.  When the man saw a tender of his legal fare, he, also in accordance with usage, broadened his mouth, tossed the coin on his palm, and pointedly refrained from thanks.  At another time Hugh might have disregarded this professional suavity, but a little thing exasperated his present mood.

‘Well?’ he exclaimed, in a voice that drew the attention of everyone near.  ‘Is it your fare or not?  Learn better manners, vicious brute!’

Before the driver could recover breath to shout a primitive insult, Hugh walked into the station.  Here, whilst his wrath was still hot, a man tearing at full speed to catch a train on another platform bumped violently against him.  He clenched his fist, and, but for the gasped apology, might have lost himself in blind rage.  As it was, he inwardly cursed railway stations, cursed England, cursed civilisation.  His muscles were quivering; sweat had started to his forehead.  A specialist in nervous pathology would have judged Hugh Carnaby a dangerous person on this Monday afternoon.