knew well) and hobbledehoyish youths, the latter clad in “reach-me-down” frockcoat suits, high collars, and small, ready-made bow ties, thronged about her.  She could not help contrasting the anaemic faces, the narrow, stooping shoulders of these youths with the solidly-built, ruddy-cheeked men whom she had seen in Wiltshire.  She was rapidly losing her old powers of physical endurance; she felt exhausted, and turned into the small Italian restaurant on the left, which she had sometimes gone to when at “Dawes’.”

“It hasn’t changed one bit,” she thought, as she entered and walked to the inner room.  There was the same bit of painted canvas at the further end of the place, depicting nothing in particular.  There were the same shy, self-conscious, whispering couples seated at the marble-topped tables, who, after critically looking over the soiled bill of fare, would invariably order coffee, roll and butter, or, if times were good, steak and fried potatoes.  The same puffy Italian waiter stood by the counter, holding, as of old, coffee-pot in one hand and milk-pot in the other.  Mavis always associated this man with the pots, which he never relinquished; she remembered wondering if he slept, still holding them in his grasp.

She ordered a veal cutlet and macaroni, for which the place was famous among the epicures of “Dawes’.”  While it was being prepared, she brought notepaper, envelope, and pencil from her bag, to write a short note to Perigal.

The morning post had brought her a letter from him, which had enclosed notes to the value of ten pounds towards the expenses of her enforced stay in London.  Her reply told him that, as she had enough for present needs, she returned his money.  She suggested that if he had no use for it, he could put it towards the expenses of providing their home; that she had arrived safely in London; that she was about to look for a lodging.  She ended with passionately affectionate wishes for his wellbeing.  When she had put the money and letter into the envelope, and this into her bag, her meal was banged down before her.  She ordered a bottle of stout, for had she not to nourish another life beside her own?  After Mavis had finished, she did not feel in the least disposed to go out.  She sat back on the dingy plush seat, and enjoyed the sensation of the food doing her good.  It was seven o’clock when she paid the waiter and joined the crowd now sauntering along Oxford Street.  She walked towards Regent Circus, hoping to find a post-office, where she could get a stamp for Perigal’s letter.  She wondered if she should go to church, if only for a few minutes, but decided to keep away from a place of worship, feeling that her thoughts were too occupied with her troubles to give adequate attention to the service.  A new, yet at the same time familiar dread, oppressed her.  She seemed to get relief from hurrying along the crowded pavement.  She longed to get settled for the night, but was still