remembered that he had brought it. He noticed also then, for the first time, that the rain was beating in through the window that he had left open. He closed that, but still he did not open his book. His mind seemed to him to be quite blank, some empty canvas waiting for a picture to be painted on it; but with that automatic perception that seems to become so vivid when anxiety or fear has deadened the large faculties into blankness, he found that he was getting very accurate impressions of the details that were presented to his senses. The two men in front wore black mackintoshes, and it was odd how the reflection of the light from the electric lamp seemed to be brighter on those wet, shiny surfaces than was the light itself. The car went smoothly, with a long-sustained burr of sound, but now and then they ran through a puddle, and he heard the dash of the water against the splash-board. Once or twice, too, against the splash-board there came a loud, single rap, from some stone, no doubt, which the wheel had jerked up. Then to his nostrils there suddenly came the smell of wallflower, which puzzled him. Then he remembered that it was a favourite scent of Lucia's and, looking in one of the pockets of the carriage, he found handkerchief of hers, which smelled of it. His hand closed on that; it was a tiny little square of finest cambric, little more than a monogram and a coronet.
The journey did not seem at all long; before he could have guessed that they were nearing its end, they had entered the suburbs, and their pace, never excessive, slowed down. They went over Hammersmith Bridge, and he saw the row of lights reflected in the tawny river; and, observing that the rain had stopped—for the pane was unblurred—he let the window down again, and the cold night air, a little tainted with the smell of smoke, came in. The million lamps of the town were reflected in the vapours overhead, and to the east it looked as if there must be some fire broken out, so red was the glow. The rain could not have ceased very long, for the pavements were still shining with it, and the streets were very empty of passengers, as if the world had despaired of fine weather that night, and had gone to bed. Motor-buses, empty on the top, but crammed to bursting inside, passed him. Once one skidded a little just as they were opposite it, and for a moment he thought there would be a collision. They were dangerous things on a wet night.
Then, before he realized they had passed through the miles of
