And perhaps the thought of another’s misery somewhat dulled the edge of her own.  Gilbert Grail was only a name to her, but he lived very vividly in her imagination.  Of course she had idealised him, as was natural in a woman thinking of a man who has been represented to her as full of native nobleness.  For him, as for herself, her heart was heavy.  She knew that he must return to his hated day-labour, and how would it now be embittered!  What anguish of resentment!  What despair of frustrate passion!

She wished she could know him, and take his hand, and soothe him with a woman’s tenderness.  His lot was harder than hers; nay, it was mockery to compare them.

Annabel rose, murmuring old words: 

’’Therefore I praised the dead which are already dead more than the living which are yet alive.  Yea, better is he than both they, which hath not yet been, who hath not seen the evil work which is done under the sun.’’

CHAPTER XXVI

IDEALIST AND HIS FRIEND

Egremont alighted one evening at Charing Cross.  He came direct from Paris, and was alone.  His absence from England had extended over a fortnight.

He did not look better for his travels; one in the crowd waiting for the arrival of the train might have supposed that he had suffered on the sea-passage and was not yet quite recovered.  Having bidden a porter look after the bag which was his only luggage, he walked to the book-stall to buy a periodical that he wished to take home with him.  And there he came face to face with two people whom he knew.  Mr. Dalmaine was just turning from the stall with an evening paper, and by his side was Paula.  Egremont had not seen either since their marriage.

The three pairs of eyes focussed on one point.  Egremont saluted—­ did it nervously, for he was prepared for nothing less than an encounter with acquaintances.  He saw a smile come to Paula’s face; he saw her on the point of extending her hand; then, to his amazement, he heard a sharp ‘Paula!’ from Dalmaine, and husband and wife turned from him.  It was the cut direct, or would have been, but for that little piece of impulsiveness on Paula’s part.  The two walked towards one of the platforms, and it was plain that Dalmaine was delivering himself in an undertone of a gentlemanly reproof.

He stood disconcerted.  What might this mean?  Was it merely an urbane way of reminding him that he had neglected certain civilities demanded by the social code?  Dalmaine would doubtless be punctilious; he was a rising politician.  Yet the insult was too pronounced:  it suggested some grave ground of offence.

As the cab bore him homewards, he felt that this was an ominous event for the moment of his return to London.  He had had no heart to come back; from the steamer he had gazed sadly on the sunny shores of France, and on landing at Dover the island air was hard to breathe.  Yet harder the air of London streets.  The meeting in the station became a symbol of stiff, awkward, pretentious Anglicism.  He had unkind sentiments towards his native country, and asked himself how he was going to live in England henceforth.