“I can’t quite say—­can’t quite say.  The details are of course full of difficulty—­the thing wouldn’t be worth much if they were not.  One of Milligan’s best points is, that he’s a thoroughly practical man—­thoroughly practical man.  It’s no commercial enterprise we’re about, but, if it’s to succeed, it must be started on sound principles.  I’d give anything if I could persuade you to join us, old fellow.  You and your mother and sister—­you’re just the kind of people we want.  Think what a grand thing it will be to give a new start to civilisation!  Doesn’t it touch you?”

Warburton was mute, and, taking this for a sign of the impressionable moment, Sherwood talked on, ardently, lyrically, until Hyde Park Corner was reached.

“Think it over, Will.  We shall have you yet; I know we shall.  Come and see Milligan.”

They parted with a warm hand-grip, and Warburton turned toward Fulham Road.

When Warburton entered the shop the next morning, Allchin was on the lookout for him.

“I want to speak to you, sir,” he said, “about this golden syrup we’ve had from Rowbottom’s—­”

Will listened, or seemed to listen, smiling at vacancy.  To whatever Allchin proposed, he gave his assent, and in the afternoon, without daring to say a word he stole into freedom.

He was once more within sight of Albert Bridge.  He walked or prowled —­for half an hour close about Oakley Crescent.  Then, over the bridge and into the Park.  Back again, and more prowling.  At last, weary and worn, to the counter and apron, and Allchin’s talk about golden syrup.

The next day, just before sunset, he sauntered on the Embankment.  He lifted up his eyes, and there, walking towards him, came the slim figure in grey.

“Not like the other evening,” said Rosamund, before he could speak, her eyes turning to the dull, featureless west.

He held her hand, until she gently drew it away, and then was frightened to find that he had held it so long.  From head to foot, he quivered, deliciously, painfully.  His tongue suffered a semi-paralysis, so that, trying to talk, he babbled—­something about the sweetness of the air—­a scent from the gardens across the river—­

“I’ve had a letter from Bertha Cross,” said his companion, as she walked slowly on.  “She comes home to-morrow.”

“Bertha Cross—?  Ah, yes, your friend—­”

The name sounded to Warburton as if from a remote past.  He repeated it several times to himself.

They stood with face turned toward the lurid south.  The air was very still.  From away down the river sounded the bells of Lambeth Church, their volleying clang softened by distance to a monotonous refrain, drearily at one with the sadness of the falling night.  Warburton heard them, yet heard them not; all external sounds blended with that within him, which was the furious beating of his heart.  He moved a hand as if to touch Rosamund’s, but let it fall as she spoke.