She was aware of him—a silk-hatted, shiny-black figure on the opposite side of the Avenue; and then, abruptly and startlingly, he crossed the road and saluted and spoke to her. But that other world, in spite of her resolute exclusion of it, was always looking round corners and peeping through chinks and crannies, and rustling and raiding into the order in which she chose to live, shining out of pictures at her, echoing in lyrics and music; it invaded her dreams, it wrote up broken and enigmatical sentences upon the passage walls of her mind. “I don’t see what he has to do with my coming to London?” “He—he worships the ground you tread on. The land about these walls is a common graveyard. ‘Come, cry a truce. “Do not look so uncomfortable, both of you,” she begged. Never. One hour later she had gone back to the mission—without the salt. It was as if her aesthetic sense had become inflamed. Entering the house, he found himself in a narrow passage leading to the back stairs. Barring that the Valade fellow had sneaked back. She shivered, more due to his presence than the changing weather. I hope you have learned your lesson now and come to see—come to realize—how things are.
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