Nesta’s promising soprano, and her mother’s contralto, and his baritone—­a true baritone, not so well trained as their accurate notes—­should be rising in spirited union with the curtain of that secret:  there was matter for song and concert, triumph and gratulation in it.  And during the whole passage of the bridge, he had not once cast thought on a secret so palpitating, the cause of the morning’s expedition and a long year’s prospect of the present day!  It seemed to have been knocked clean out of it—­punctilioed out, Fenellan might say.  Nor had any combinations upon the theme of business displaced it.  Just before the fall, the whole drama of the unfolding of that secret was brilliant to his eyes as a scene on a stage.

He refused to feel any sensible bruise on his head, with the admission that he perhaps might think he felt one which was virtually no more than the feeling of a thought;—­what his friend Dr. Peter Yatt would define as feeling a rotifer astir in the curative compartment of a homoeopathic globule:  and a playful fancy may do that or anything.  Only, Sanity does not allow the infinitely little to disturb us.

Mr. Radnor had a quaint experience of the effects of the infinitely little while threading his way to a haberdasher’s shop for new white waistcoats.  Under the shadow of the representative statue of City Corporations and London’s majesty, the figure of Royalty, worshipful in its marbled redundancy, fronting the bridge, on the slope where the seas of fish and fruit below throw up a thin line of their drift, he stood contemplating the not unamiable, reposefully-jolly, Guelphic countenance, from the loose jowl to the bent knee, as if it were a novelty to him; unwilling to trust himself to the roadway he had often traversed, equally careful that his hesitation should not be seen.  A trifle more impressible, he might have imagined the smoky figure and magnum of pursiness barring the City against him.  He could have laughed aloud at the hypocrisy behind his quiet look of provincial wonderment at London’s sculptor’s art; and he was partly tickled as well by the singular fit of timidity enchaining him.  Cart, omnibus, cab, van, barrow, donkey-tray, went by in strings, broken here and there, and he could not induce his legs to take advantage of the gaps; he listened to a warning that he would be down again if he tried it, among those wheels; and his nerves clutched him, like a troop of household women, to keep him from the hazard of an exposure to the horrid crunch, pitiless as tiger’s teeth; and we may say truly, that once down, or once out of the rutted line, you are food for lion and jackal—­the forces of the world will have you in their mandibles.

An idea was there too; but it would not accept pursuit.

‘A pretty scud overheard?’ said a voice at his ear.

‘For fine!—­to-day at least,’ Mr. Radnor affably replied to a stranger; and gazing on the face of his friend Fenellan, knew the voice, and laughed:  ‘You?’ He straightened his back immediately to cross the road, dismissing nervousness as a vapour, asking, between a cab and a van:  ‘Anything doing in the City?’ For Mr. Fenellan’s proper station faced Westward.