It was his hope that no acquaintance would pass this way.  Still blameless in fact, he could not help a fear of being observed; the feeling could not have been stronger if he had come with the express purpose of seeking Thyrza.  The air was cold; it blew at moments piercingly from the river.  Where the sun had set, there was still a swarthy glow upon the clouds; the gas-lamps gave a haggardness to the banks and the bridges.

He walked at a quick pace; this way, then that.  Workmen and women in numbers were hurrying in both directions.  Egremont kept his face towards the river, that he might see no one.  There was no likelihood that Thyrza would pass.  If she did, if she were alone and saw him, he knew she would come up to him and speak.

The bell at Westminster struck out the hour of eight.  He turned off the Embankment and went on to Lambeth Bridge, stopping at length to lean on the parapet at the same place where Gilbert had stood and mused one night when his happiness was almost too great to bear.  To Egremont the darkening scene was in accord with the wearied misery which made his life one dull pain.  London lay beneath the night like a city of hopeless toil, of aimless conflict, of frustration and barrenness.  His philosophy was a sham, a spinning of cobwebs for idle hours when the heart is restful and the brain seeks to be amused.  He had no more strength to bear the torture of an inassuageable desire than any foolish fellow who knew not the name of culture.  He could not look forward to the day of forgetting; he would not allow himself to believe that he ever could forget.

But it was time now to go on to Newport Street.  In Paradise Street, just before the railway arch, he glanced at the Bowers’ shop, and dreaded lest Bower should meet him.  But he saw no one that he knew before reaching Bunce’s abode.

The landlady opened the door.  Bunce was at home, and in a moment came down.  He returned his visitor’s greeting awkwardly, much wondering.

‘Could I have a few words with you?’ Egremont asked.  ’I have come on Mrs. Ormonde’s behalf—­the lady at the Eastbourne home, you know.  I have a message about your little girl.’

‘Something happened?’ Bunce inquired, in a startled voice.

‘No, no; good news, if anything.’

Bunce did not willingly invite Egremont into his poor room, but he felt that he had no choice.  He just said:  ’Will you come upstairs, sir?’ and led the way.

The two children were playing together on the floor; Bunce had been on the point of putting Nelly to bed.  In spite of his mood, natural kindness so far prevailed with Egremont that he bent and touched the child’s curls.  Bunce, with set lips, stood watching; he saw that Egremont had not so much as cast an eye round the room, and that, together with the attention to his child, softened his naturally suspicious frame of mind.

‘It’s better than coming back to an empty room every night?’ Egremont said, looking at the man.