at Vauxhall. In the tunnel he paused and listened to the
roar of the trains. A sharp pain darted through his head,
and he was conscious of the exact form of his eye sockets.
He pushed on for another mile, and did not slacken speed
until he stood at the entrance of a road called Camelia
Road, which was at present his home.

Here he stopped again, and glanced suspiciously to right
and left, like a rabbit that is going to bolt into its
hole. A block of flats, constructed with extreme cheapness,
towered on either hand. Farther down the road two more
blocks were being built, and beyond these an old house was
being demolished to accommodate another pair. It was the
kind of scene that may be observed all over London, whatever
the locality--bricks and mortar rising and falling with the
restlessness of the water in a fountain, as the city
receives more and more men upon her soil. Camelia Road
would soon stand out like a fortress, and command, for a
little, an extensive view. Only for a little. Plans were
out for the erection of flats in Magnolia Road also. And
again a few years, and all the flats in either road might be
pulled down, and new buildings, of a vastness at present
unimaginable, might arise where they had fallen.

"Evening, Mr. Bast."

"Evening, Mr. Cunningham."

"Very serious thing this decline of the birth-rate in Manchester."