“That he should be in the same world with me!” said Ann Veronica, reduced to reading the list of good things the British Tea-Table Company had priced for its patrons.

Heaven knows what dim and tawdry conceptions of passion and desire were in that blond cranium, what romance-begotten dreams of intrigue and adventure! but they sufficed, when presently Ann Veronica went out into the darkling street again, to inspire a flitting, dogged pursuit, idiotic, exasperating, indecent.

She had no idea what she should do.  If she spoke to a policeman she did not know what would ensue.  Perhaps she would have to charge this man and appear in a police-court next day.

She became angry with herself.  She would not be driven in by this persistent, sneaking aggression.  She would ignore him.  Surely she could ignore him.  She stopped abruptly, and looked in a flower-shop window.  He passed, and came loitering back and stood beside her, silently looking into her face.

The afternoon had passed now into twilight.  The shops were lighting up into gigantic lanterns of color, the street lamps were glowing into existence, and she had lost her way.  She had lost her sense of direction, and was among unfamiliar streets.  She went on from street to street, and all the glory of London had departed.  Against the sinister, the threatening, monstrous inhumanity of the limitless city, there was nothing now but this supreme, ugly fact of a pursuit—­the pursuit of the undesired, persistent male.

For a second time Ann Veronica wanted to swear at the universe.

There were moments when she thought of turning upon this man and talking to him.  But there was something in his face at once stupid and invincible that told her he would go on forcing himself upon her, that he would esteem speech with her a great point gained.  In the twilight he had ceased to be a person one could tackle and shame; he had become something more general, a something that crawled and sneaked toward her and would not let her alone....

Then, when the tension was getting unendurable, and she was on the verge of speaking to some casual passer-by and demanding help, her follower vanished.  For a time she could scarcely believe he was gone.  He had.  The night had swallowed him up, but his work on her was done.  She had lost her nerve, and there was no more freedom in London for her that night.  She was glad to join in the stream of hurrying homeward workers that was now welling out of a thousand places of employment, and to imitate their driven, preoccupied haste.  She had followed a bobbing white hat and gray jacket until she reached the Euston Road corner of Tottenham Court Road, and there, by the name on a bus and the cries of a conductor, she made a guess of her way.  And she did not merely affect to be driven—­she felt driven.  She was afraid people would follow her, she was afraid of the dark, open doorways she passed, and afraid of the blazes of light; she was afraid to be alone, and she knew not what it was she feared.