She nodded her head rather vaguely。 “You should
meet each other。”
Denham’s one wish was to leave the house as soon as
he could； but the elderly ladies had risen； and were proposing
to visit Mrs。 Hilbery in her bedroom； so that any
move on his part was impossible。 At the same time； he
wished to say something； but he knew not what； to
Katharine alone。 She took her aunts upstairs； and returned；
ing towards him once more with an air of innocence
and friendliness that amazed him。
“My father will be back；” she said。 “Won’t you sit down？”
and she laughed； as if now they might share a perfectly
friendly laugh at the teaparty。
But Ralph made no attempt to seat himself。
“I must congratulate you；” he said。 “It was news to
me。” He saw her face change； but only to bee graver
than before。
“My engagement？” she asked。 “Yes； I am going to marry
William Rodney。”
Ralph remained standing with his hand on the back of
a chair in absolute silence。 Abysses seemed to plunge
into darkness between them。 He looked at her； but her
face showed that she was not thinking of him。 No regret
or consciousness of wrong disturbed her。
“Well； I must go；” he said at length。
She seemed about to say something； then changed her
mind and said merely：
“You will e again； I hope。 We always seem”—she
hesitated—”to be interrupted。”
He bowed and left the room。
Ralph strode with extreme swiftness along the Embank
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ment。 Every muscle was taut and braced as if to resist
some sudden attack from outside。 For the moment it
seemed as if the attack were about to be directed against
his body； and his brain thus was on the alert； but without
understanding。 Finding himself； after a few minutes； no
longer under observation； and no attack delivered； he
slackened his pace； the pain spread all through him； took
possession of every governing seat； and met with scarcely
any resistance from powers exhausted by their first effort
at defence。 He took his way languidly along the river
embankment； away from home rather than towards it。
The world had him at its mercy。 He made no pattern out
of the sights he saw。 He felt himself now； as he had often
fancied other people； adrift on the stream； and far removed
from control of it； a man with no grasp upon circumstances
any longer。 Old battered men loafing at the
doors of publichouses now seemed to be his fellows； and
he felt； as he supposed them to feel； a mingling of envy
and hatred towards those who passed quickly and certainly
to a goal of their own。 They； too； saw things very
thin and shadowy； and were wafted about by the lightest
breath of wind。 For the substantial world； with its prospect
of avenues leading on and on to the invisible distance；
had slipped from him； since Katharine was engaged。
Now all his life was visible； and the straight； meager
path had its ending soon enough。 Katharine was engaged；
and she had deceived him； too。 He felt for corners
of his being untouched by his disaster； but there was no
limit to the flood of damage； not one of his possessions
was safe now。 Katharine had deceived him； she had mixed
herself with every thought of his； and reft of her they
seemed false thoughts which he would blush to think
again。 His life seemed immeasurably impoverished。
He sat himself down； in spite of the chilly fog which
obscured the farther bank and left its lights suspended
upon a blank surface； upon one of the riverside seats；
and let the tide of disillusionment sweep through him。
For the time being all bright points in his life were blotted
out； all prominences leveled。 At first he made himself
believe that Katharine had treated him badly； and drew
fort from the thought that； left alone； she would recollect
this； and think of him and tender him； in silence；
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at any rate； an apology。 But this grain of fort failed
him after a second or two； for； upon reflection； he had to
admit that Katharine owed him nothing。 Katharine had
promised nothing； taken nothing； to her his dreams had
meant nothing。 This； indeed； was the lowest pitch of his
despair。 If the best of one’s feelings means nothing to
the person most concerned in those feelings； what reality
is left us？ The old romance which had warmed his
days for him； the thoughts of Katharine which had painted
every hour； were now made to appear foolish and enfeebled。
He rose； and looked into the river； whose swift
race of duncolored waters seemed the very spirit of futility
and oblivion。
“In what can one trust； then？” he thought； as he leant
there。 So feeble and insubstantial did he feel himself that
he repeated the word aloud。
“In what can one trust？ Not in men and women。 Not in
one’s dreams about them。 There’s nothing—nothing； nothing
left at all。”
Now Denham had reason to know that he could bring to
birth and keep alive a fine anger when he chose。 Rodney
provided a good target for that emotion。 And yet at the
moment； Rodney and Katharine herself seemed disembodied
ghosts。 He could scarcely remember the look of
them。 His mind plunged lower and lower。 Their marriage
seemed of no importance to him。 All things had turned
to ghosts； the whole mass of the world was insubstantial
vapor； surrounding the solitary spark in his mind； whose
burning point he could remember； for it burnt no more。
He had once cherished a belief； and Katharine had embodied
this belief； and she did so no longer。 He did not
blame her； he blamed nothing； nobody； he saw the truth。
He saw the duncolored race of waters and the blank shore。
But life is vigorous； the body lives； and the body； no
doubt； dictated the reflection； which now urged him to
movement； that one may cast away the forms of human
beings； and yet retain the passion which seemed inseparable
from their existence in the flesh。 Now this passion
burnt on his horizon； as the winter sun makes a greenish
pane in the west through thinning clouds。 His eyes were
set on something infinitely far and remote； by that light
he felt he could walk； and would； in future； have to find
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his way。 But that was all there was left to him of a populous
and teeming world。
CHAPTER XIII
The lunch hour in the office was only partly spent by
Denham in the consumption of food。 Whether fine or wet；
he passed most of it pacing the gravel paths in Lincoln’s
Inn Fields。 The children got to know his figure； and the
sparrows expected their daily scattering of breadcrumbs。
No doubt； since he often gave a copper and almost always
a handful of bread； he was not as blind to his surroundings
as he thought himself。
He thought that these winter days were spent in long
hours before white papers radiant in electric light； and in
short passages through fogdimmed streets。 When he came
back to his work after lunch he carried in his head a
picture of the Strand； scattered with omnibuses； and of
the purple shapes of leaves pressed flat upon the gravel；
as if his eyes had always been bent upon the ground。 His
brain worked incessantly； but his thought was attended
with so little joy that he did not willingly recall it； but
drove ahead； now in this direction； now in that； and came
home laden with dark books borrowed from a library。
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Mary Datchet； ing from the Strand at lunchtime；
saw him one day taking his turn； closely buttoned in an
overcoat； and so lost in thought that he might have been
sitting in his own room。
She was overe by something very like awe by the
sight of him； then she felt much inclined to laugh； although
her pulse beat faster。 She passed him； and he
never saw her。 She came back and touched him on the
shoulder。
“Gracious； Mary！” he exclaimed。 “How you startled me！”
“Yes。 You looked as if you were walking in your sleep；”
she said。 “Are you arranging some terrible love affair？
Have you got to reconcile a desperate couple？”
“I wasn’t thinking about my work；” Ralph replied； rather
hastily。 “And； besides； that sort of thing’s not in my line；”
he added； rather grimly。
The morning was fine； and they had still some minutes
of leisure to spend。 They had not met for two or three
weeks； and Mary had much to say to Ralph； but she was
not certain how far he wished for her pany。 However；
after a turn or two； in which a few facts were muni
cated； he suggested sitting down； and she took the seat
beside him。 The sparrows came fluttering about them； and
Ralph produced from his pocket the half of a roll saved
from his luncheon。 He threw a few crumbs among them。
“I’ve never seen sparrows so tame；” Mary observed； by
way of saying something。
“No；” said Ralph。 “The sparrows in Hyde Park aren’t as
tame as this。 If we keep perfectly still； I’ll get one to
settle on my arm。”
Mary felt that she could have forgone this display of
animal good temper； but seeing that Ralph； for some curious
reason； took a pride in the sparrows； she bet him
sixpence that he would not succeed。
“Done！” he said； and his eye； which had been gloomy；
showed a spark of light。 His conversation was now addressed
entirely to a bald cocksparrow； who seemed bolder
than the rest； and Mary took the opportunity of looking
at him。 She was not satisfied； his face was worn； and his
expression stern。 A child came bowling its hoop through
the concourse of birds； and Ralph threw his last crumbs
of bread into the bushes with a snort of impatience。
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“That’s what always happens—just as I’ve almost got
him；” he said。 “Here’s your sixpence； Mary。 But you’ve
only got it thanks to that brute of a boy。 They oughtn’t
to be allowed to bowl hoops here—”
“Oughtn’t to be allowed to bowl hoops！ My dear Ralph；
what nonsense！”
“You always say that；” he plained； “and it isn’t nonsense。
What’s the point of having a garden if one can’t
watch birds in it？ The street does all right for hoops。 And
if children can’t be trusted in the s