pleasure every circumstance which contradicted his wilful
depreciation of her. His state of mind after the thrashing he gave
to young Tootle had been characteristic. What had been the cause of
his violence? Certainly not uncontrollable anger, for he had in
reality been perfectly cool throughout the affair; simply, then, the
pleasure of avenging Miss Enderby. And for this he had sacrificed
his place, and left himself without resources. He had acted
absurdly; certainly would not have repeated the absurdity had the
scene been to act over again. This was not the attitude of one in
love, and he knew it. Moreover, though he had thought of writing to
her, it would in reality have cost him nothing if she had forthwith
passed out of his sight and knowledge. Now how all this had been
altered, by a mere chance meeting. The doubts had left him; she was
indeed the being from a higher world that he would have liked to
believe her from the first; the mysterious note of true sympathy had
been struck in that short exchange of words and looks, and, though
they had taken leave of each other for who could say how long,
mutual knowledge was just beginning, real intercourse about to be
established between them. He might write to her, and of course she
would reply.

He walked without much perception of time or distance, and found
himself at home just before nightfall. He felt disposed for a quiet
evening, to be spent in the companionship of his thoughts. But when
he had made his coffee and eaten with appetite after the day's
rambling, restlessness again possessed him. After all, it was not
retirement that he needed; these strange new Imaginings would
consort best with motion and the liveliness of the streets. So he
put out his lamp, and once more set forth. The night air freshened
his spirits; he sang to himself as he went along. It was long since