“Things had gone so hardly with you then?” she murmured.

He nodded.

“From the first.  I came to London as an adventurer, it is true.  I knew no one, and I had no money.  But the editor of the Ibex had written me kindly, had accepted a story and asked for more.  Yet when I went to see him he seemed to have forgotten or repented.  He would not give me a hearing.  Even the story he had accepted he told me he could not use for a long time—­and I was relying upon the money for that.  That was the beginning of my ill-luck, and afterwards it never left me.”

She sat for a moment with a look in her deep, soft eyes which he could not understand.  Afterwards he thought of it and wondered.  It passed away very soon, and she bent towards him with her face full of sympathy.

“It has left you now,” she said softly, “and for ever.  Do you know I have come to take you for a drive?  The doctor says that it will do you good.”

With a curious sense of unreality he followed her downstairs, and took the vacant seat in the victoria.  It was all so much like a dream, like one of those wonderful visions which had come to him at times in the days of his homeless wanderings.  Surely it was an illusion.  The luxurious carriage, the great horses with their silver-mounted harness, the servants in their smart liveries, and above all, this beautiful woman, who leaned back at his side, watching him often with a sort of gentle curiosity.  At first he sat still, quite dazed, his senses a little numbed, the feeling of unreality so strong upon him that he was almost tongue-tied.  But presently the life of the streets awakened him.  It was all so fascinating and alluring.  They were in a part of London of which he had seen little—­and that little from the gutters.  To-day in the brilliant sunshine, in clothes better than any he had ever worn before, and side by side with a woman whom every one seemed honoured to know, he looked upon it with different eyes.  They drove along Bond Street at a snail’s pace and stopped for a few minutes at one of the smaller galleries, where she took him in to see a wonderful Russian picture, about which every one was talking.  Fancying that he looked tired she insisted upon tea, and they stopped at some curious little rooms, and sat together at a tiny table drinking tea with sliced lemons, and eating strawberries such as he had never seen before.  Then on again to the Park, where they pulled up under the trees, and she waved constantly away the friends who would have surrounded her carriage.  One or two would not be denied, and to all of them she introduced Jesson—­the young writer—­they had seen that wonderful work of his in the Daily Courier, of course?  He took no part in any conversation more than he could help, leaning back amongst the cushions with the white lace of her parasol close to his cheek, watching the faces of the men and women who streamed by, and the great banks of rhododendrons dimly seen lower down through the waving green trees.  The murmur of pleasant conversation fell constantly upon his ears—­surely that other world was part of an evil dream, a relic of his delirium.  Heaven and hell could never exist so close together.  But by-and-bye, when they drove off she herself brought the truth home to him.