Their eyes met. Mrs. Hannaford gazed at him sadly for an instant,
shook her head, and turned away. Piers went back to lonely misery.

Early next day he stole from the house, and went to London. His
business was at the tailor's; he ordered a suit of ceremony--the
frock coat on which his brother Daniel had so pathetically insisted
--and begged that it might be ready at the earliest possible
moment. Next he made certain purchases in haberdashery. Through it
all, he had a most oppressive feeling of self-contempt, which--
Piers was but one-and-twenty--he did not try to analyze. Every
shop-mirror which reflected him seemed to present a malicious
caricature; he hurried away on to the pavement, small, ignoble,
silly. His heart did battle, and at moments assailed him in a
triumph of heroic desire; but then again came the sinking moments,
the sense of a grovelling fellowship with people he despised.

It was raining. His shopping done, he entered an omnibus, which took
him as far as the Marble Arch; thence, beneath his umbrella, he
walked in search of Bryanston Square. Here was Dr. Derwent's house.
Very much like a burglar, a beginner at the business, making survey
of his field, he moved timidly into the Square, and sought the
number; having found it with unexpected suddenness, he hurried past.
To be detected here would be dreadful; he durst not go to the
opposite side, lest Irene should perchance be at a window; yet he
wanted to observe the house, and did, from behind his umbrella, when
a few doors away.

Never had he known what it was to feel such an insignificant mortal.
Standing here in the rain, he saw no distinction between himself and