He went off laughing, and his friend sat down again by the fireside.

Half an hour passed. The fire had burnt low, and the room was quite
dark. At length, Hilliard bestirred himself. He lit the lamp, drew
down the blind, and seated himself at the table to write. With great
rapidity he covered four sides of note-paper, and addressed an
envelope. But he had no postage-stamp. It could be obtained at a
tobacconist's.

So he went out, and turned towards a little shop hard by. But when
he had stamped the letter he felt undecided about posting it. Eve
had promised to come to-morrow with Patty. If she again failed him
it would be time enough to write. If she kept her promise the
presence of a third person would be an intolerable restraint upon
him. Yet why? Patty might as well know all, and act as judge between
them. There needed little sagacity to arbitrate in a matter such as
this.

To sit at home was impossible. He walked for the sake of walking,
straight on, without object. Down the long gas-lit perspective of
Bradford Street, with its closed, silent workshops, across the
miserable little river Rea--canal rather than river, sewer rather
than canal--up the steep ascent to St. Martin's and the Bull Ring,
and the bronze Nelson, dripping with dirty moisture; between the big
buildings of New Street, and so to the centre of the town. At the
corner by the Post Office he stood in idle contemplation. Rain was
still falling, but lightly. The great open space gleamed with shafts
of yellow radiance reflected on wet asphalt from the numerous lamps.
There was little traffic. An omnibus clattered by, and a tottery
cab, both looking rain-soaked. Near the statue of Peel stood a