‘Isn’t the rain sweet here?’ she continued, anxious to re-establish the quiet, natural tone between them.  ’I like the perfume and the taste of it.  I remember how mournful the rain used to be in London streets.’

They regained the house.  Annabel passed quickly upstairs.  Egremont remained standing in the porch, looking forth upon the garden.  His reverie was broken by a voice.

’How gloomy the rain is here!  One doesn’t mind it in London; there’s always something to do and somewhere to go.’

It was Paula.  Egremont could not help showing amusement.

‘Do you stay much longer?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know.’

She spoke with indifference, keeping her eyes averted.

‘I must catch the mail at Penrith this evening,’ he said.  ’I’m afraid it will be a wet drive.’

’You’re going, are you?  Not to Jersey again, I hope?

‘Why not?’

’It seems to make people very dull.  I shall warn all my friends against it.’

She hummed an air and left him.

Late in the afternoon Egremont took leave of his friends.  Mr. Newthorpe went out into the rain, and at the last moment shook hands with him heartily.  Annabel stood at the window and smiled farewell.

The wheels splashed along the road; rain fell in torrents.  Egremont presently looked back from the carriage window.  The house was already out of view, and the summits of the circling hills were wreathed with cloud.

CHAPTER III

A CORNER OF LAMBETH

A working man, one Gilbert Grail, was spending an hour of his Saturday afternoon in Westminster Abbey.  At five o’clock the sky still pulsed with heat; black shadows were sharp edged upon the yellow pavement.  Between the bridges of Westminster and Lambeth the river was a colourless gleam; but in the Sanctuary evening had fallen.  Above the cool twilight of the aisles floated a golden mist; and the echo of a footfall hushed itself among the tombs.

He was a man past youth, but of less than middle age, with meagre limbs and shoulders, a little bent.  His clothing was rough but decent; his small and white hands gave evidence of occupation which was not rudely laborious.  He had a large head, thickly covered with dark hair, which, with his moustache and beard, heightened the wanness of his complexion.  A massive forehead, deep-set eyes, thin, straight nose, large lips constantly drawn inwards, made a physiognomy impressive rather than pleasing.  The cast of thought was upon it; of thought eager and self-tormenting; the mark of a spirit ever straining after something unattainable.  At moments when he found satisfaction in reading the legend on some monument his eyes grew placid and his beetling brows smoothed themselves; but the haunter within would not be forgotten, and, as if at a sudden recollection, he dropped his eyes in a troubled way, and moved onwards brooding.  In those brief intervals of peace his countenance expressed an absorbing reverence, a profound humility.  The same was evident in his bearing; he walked as softly as possible and avoided treading upon a sculptured name.