Then the impact of a single idea startled his blood.  He went hot.  He flushed.  He had tingling sensations all down his back, and in his legs and in his arms.  It was as though he had been caught in a dubious situation.  Though he was utterly innocent, he felt as though he had something to be ashamed of.  The idea was:  she resembled old Haim, facially!  Ridiculous idea!  But she did resemble old Haim, particularly in the lobal termination of the nose.  And in the lips too.  And there was a vague, general resemblance.  Absurd!  It was a fancy....  He would not have cared for anybody to be watching him then, to surprise him watching her.  He heard unmistakable footsteps on the pavement.  A policeman darkly approached.  Policemen at times can be very apposite.  George moved his gaze and looked with admirable casualness around.

“Officer, is this Alexandra Grove?” (His stepfather had taught him to address all policemen as ‘officer.’)

“It is, sir.”

“Oh!  Well, which is No. 8?  There’re no numbers.”

“You couldn’t be much nearer to it, sir,” said the policeman dryly, and pointed to a large number, fairly visible, on the wide gate-post.  George had not inspected the gate-post.

“Oh!  Thanks!”

He mounted the steps, and in the thick gloom of the portico fumbled for the bell and rang it.  He was tremendously excited and expectant and apprehensive and puzzled.  He heard rain flatly spitting in big drops on the steps.  He had not noticed till then that it had begun again.  The bell jangled below.  The light in the basement went out.  He flushed anew.  He thought, trembling:  “She’s coming to the door herself!”

III

“It had occurred to me some time ago,” said Mr. Haim, “that if ever you should be wanting rooms I might be able to suit you.”

“Really!” George murmured.  After having been shown into the room by the young woman, who had at once disappeared, he was now recovering from the nervousness of that agitating entry and resuming his normal demeanour of an experienced and well-balanced man of the world.  He felt relieved that she had gone, and yet he regretted her departure extremely, and hoped against fear that she would soon return.

“Yes!” said Mr. Haim, as it were triumphantly, like one who had whispered to himself during long years:  “The hour will come.”  The hour had come.

Mr. Haim was surprising to George.  The man seemed much older in his own parlour than at the office—­his hair thinner and greyer, and his face more wrinkled.  But the surprising part of him was that he had a home and was master in it, and possessed interests other than those of the firm of Lucas & Enwright.  George had never until that day conceived the man apart from Russell Square.  And here he was smoking a cigarette in an easy-chair and wearing red morocco slippers, and being called ‘father’ by a really stunning creature in a thin white blouse and a blue skirt.