Walter Maynard, for he was the hurried walker, appeared much changed; he was thin and pale, and his cheek had that worn look which tells of bodily suffering. His dress was shabby, and arranged with little of his former attention to appearance: the eyes were larger and darker than of old, while there was an unnatural lustre, which bespoke both mental and physical fever. As he passed along, nothing seemed to catch his glance. He hurried on; and yet, more than once, he came to almost a full stop, as if reluctant, although impatient.
It was with slow and languid steps that, at last, he entered a bookseller's shop: he gave in his name, and the young man, behind the counter, very civilly asked him to wait. He sat down, and, mechanically, turned over some volumes that lay beside him; but their contents swam before him. The lover may tremble while waiting for the mistress on whose lip hangs the heart's doom, but I doubt whether he feels equal anxiety with the young author waiting the fiat of his publisher. One figure
