massively together, showed the ease of genius and the gravity of thought.
The absence of all effeminate glitter, the iron grapple with the pith and
substance of the argument opposed, seemed familiar to Percival. He
thought he heard the deep bass of John Ardworth's earnest voice when some
truth roused his advocacy, or some falsehood provoked his wrath. He put
down the book, bewildered. Could it be the obscure, briefless lawyer in
Gray's Inn (that very morning the object of his young pity) who was thus
lifted into fame? He smiled at his own credulity. But he listened with
more attention to the enthusiastic praises that circled round, and the
various guesses which accompanied them. Soon, however, his former gloom
returned,--the Babel began to chafe and weary him. He rose, and went
forth again into the air. He strolled on without purpose, but
mechanically, into the street where he had first seen Helen. He paused a
few moments under the colonnade which faced Beck's old deserted crossing.
His pause attracted the notice of one of the unhappy beings whom we
suffer to pollute our streets and rot in our hospitals. She approached
and spoke to him,--to him whose heart was so full of Helen! He
shuddered, and strode on. At length he paused before the twin towers of
Westminster Abbey, on which the moon rested in solemn splendour; and in
that space one man only shared his solitude. A figure with folded arms
leaned against the iron rails near the statue of Canning, and his gaze
comprehended in one view the walls of the Parliament, in which all
passions wage their war, and the glorious abbey, which gives a Walhalla
to the great. The utter stillness of the figure, so in unison with the
stillness of the scene, had upon Percival more effect than would have
been produced by the most clamorous crowd. He looked round curiously as
he passed, and uttered an exclamation as he recognized John Ardworth.

"You, Percival!" said Ardworth. "A strange meeting-place at this hour!
What can bring you hither?"