could not question her sincerity, but she seemed to him a trifle morbid.  It might be natural reaction, in a temper such as hers, against the monstrous egotism by which her life had been subdued and shadowed.  She inclined to mystical views; mentioned Christina Rossetti as one of her favourites; cared little or nothing for the louder interests of the time.  Impossible to detect the colour of her thoughts with regard to Cecil; she spoke of him gravely and gently, but without the least perceptible emotion.  Harvey noticed her when Morphew was saying goodbye; her smile was sweet, and perhaps tender, but even then she seemed to be debating with herself some point of conscience.  Perhaps Cecil had pressed her hand rather too fervently?

The friends walked away in silence along the dim-lighted street, between monotonous rows of high sombre houses, each with its pillared portico which looked like the entrance to a tomb.  Glancing about him with a sense of depression, Harvey wondered that any mortal could fix his pride on the fact of residence in such a hard, cold, ugly wilderness.

‘Has she altered much since you first knew her?’ he asked at length.

‘A good deal,’ answered the other.  ’Yes, a good deal.  She used to laugh sometimes; now she never does.  She was always quiet —­ always looked at things seriously —­ but it was different.  You think her gloomy?’

’No, no; not gloomy.  It’s all natural enough.  Her life wants a little sunlight, that’s all.’

For the rest, he could speak with sincere admiration, and Cecil heard him delightedly.

The choice of a dwelling was a most difficult matter.  As it must be quite a small house, the remoter suburbs could alone supply what was wanted; Morphew spent every Saturday and Sunday in wearisome exploration.  Mrs. Winter, though in theory she accepted the necessity of cheapness, shrank from every practical suggestion declaring it impossible to live in such places as Cecil requested her to look at.  She had an ideal of the ’nice thinks nothing of.  And herself the cause of it, if only I had dared to tell her so!’

‘The old story, I suppose,’ said Harvey.  ‘Some other woman?’

’I was very near telling you, that day you came to my beastly garret in Chelsea; do you remember?  It was the worst time with me then —­ except when you found me in Brussels.  I’d been gambling again; you knew that.  I wanted money for something I felt ashamed to speak of. —­ You know the awful misery I used to suffer about Henrietta.  I was often enough nearly mad with —­ what is one to call it?  Why isn’t there a decent name for the agony men go through at that age?  I simply couldn’t live alone any longer —­ I couldn’t; and only a fool and a hypocrite would pretend to blame me.  A man, that is; women seem to be made different. —­ Oh, there’s nothing to tell.  The same thing happens a hundred times every day in London.  A girl wandering about in the Park —­ quarrel at home —­