confusion of Bond Street. He followed it with his eyes; it put to him
embarrassing things. "She's not for _me_!" the great novelist had said
emphatically at Summersoft; but his manner of conducting himself toward
her appeared not quite in harmony with such a conviction. How could he
have behaved differently if she _had_ been for him? An indefinite envy
rose in Paul Overt's heart as he took his way on foot alone; a feeling
addressed alike strangely enough, to each of the occupants of the hansom.
How much he should like to rattle about London with such a girl! How
much he should like to go and look at "types" with St. George!

The next Sunday at four o'clock he called in Manchester Square, where his
secret wish was gratified by his finding Miss Fancourt alone. She was in
a large bright friendly occupied room, which was painted red all over,
draped with the quaint cheap florid stuffs that are represented as coming
from southern and eastern countries, where they are fabled to serve as
the counterpanes of the peasantry, and bedecked with pottery of vivid
hues, ranged on casual shelves, and with many water-colour drawings from
the hand (as the visitor learned) of the young lady herself,
commemorating with a brave breadth the sunsets, the mountains, the
temples and palaces of India. He sat an hour--more than an hour, two
hours--and all the while no one came in. His hostess was so good as to
remark, with her liberal humanity, that it was delightful they weren't
interrupted; it was so rare in London, especially at that season, that
people got a good talk. But luckily now, of a fine Sunday, half the
world went out of town, and that made it better for those who didn't go,
when these others were in sympathy. It was the defect of London--one of
two or three, the very short list of those she recognised in the teeming
world-city she adored--that there were too few good chances for talk; you
never had time to carry anything far.