moved abruptly to the window and threw it open. Below was Piccadilly,
brilliant with May sunshine, surging with life. Motors and carriages,
omnibuses and hansoms, were all jostled together in a block; the
pavements were thronged with a motley and ever-hurrying crowd. It
seemed to him, accustomed to the callous and hopeless appearance of a
less happy tribe, that the faces of these people were all aflame with
the joy of the springtime. The perfume from the great clusters of
yellow daffodils and violets floated up from the flower sellers'
baskets below; the fresh, warm air seemed to bring him poignant
memories of crocus-starred lawns, of trim beds of hyacinths, of the
song of birds, of the perfume of drooping lilac. Grim and motionless,
as a figure of fate, Wingrave looked down from his window, with cold,
yet discerning eyes. He was still an alien, a denizen in another world
from that which flowed so smoothly and pleasantly below. It was
something to which he did not belong, which he doubted, indeed, if
ever again he could enter. He had no part in it, no share in that
vigorous life, whose throbbings he could dimly feel, though his own
heart was beating to a slower and a very different tune. They were his
fellows in name only. Between him and them stood the judgment
of--Rocke!

The evil chances of the world are many! It was whilst his thoughts
traveled in this fashion that the electric landaulette of Lady Ruth
Barrington glided round the corner from St. James' Street, and joined
in the throng of vehicles slowly making their way down Piccadilly. His
attention was attracted first by the white and spotless liveries of
the servants--the form of locomotion itself was almost new to him.
Then he saw the woman who leaned back amongst the cushions. She was
elegantly dressed; she wore no veil; she did not look a day more than
thirty. She was attractive, from the tips of her patent shoes, to the