buffeted him; and it was not until strolling up from Paltley Hill
railway station to Herons' Holt that one cooling fact emerged from
which he might make an ordered examination of what had passed.

The address that the cabman had given him was this fact--14 Palace
Gardens, St. John's Wood. Here was the gangway through the pile of
disorder, and here George resolutely made a start of examining events
in place of wildly beating about through the dust of aimless
conjectures.

He visualised this Palace Gardens residence. A gloomy house, he
suspected,--prison-like; its inhabitants warders, the girl their
captive. A beautiful picture was thus presented to this ridiculous
young man. For if the girl were indeed captive, warder-surrounded, how
gratefully her heart must press towards him who was no turnkey! The
more irksomely her captors held her, the more warmly would she
remember him. Subconsciously he hoped for a rattle of chains, a
scourging with whips. Every bond, every stroke would speed her spirit
to the recollection of their meeting.

But this delectable picture soon faded. Love--and this ridiculous
George vowed he was in love--love is a mental see-saw. The nicely-
balanced mind is set suddenly oscillating: now up, commandingly above
the world, intoxicated with the rush and the elevation; now down to
depths made horribly deep by contrast, wretchedly jarred by the bump.

A new thought impelled a downward jolt of this kind. Failing a gloomy
14 Palace Gardens, supposing the girl to be happily situated, it was
horribly improbable that she would give him a moment's thought. This
was a most chilling idea. Shivering beneath the douche, George's mind