sun withdrew behind them to emerge no more that day, and the
evening drew to a close in drifts of rain. The water-drops beat
like duck shot against the window of the railway-carriage
containing Stephen and Elfride.

The journey from Plymouth to Paddington, by even the most headlong
express, allows quite enough leisure for passion of any sort to
cool. Elfride's excitement had passed off, and she sat in a kind
of stupor during the latter half of the journey. She was aroused
by the clanging of the maze of rails over which they traced their
way at the entrance to the station.

Is this London?' she said.

'Yes, darling,' said Stephen in a tone of assurance he was far
from feeling. To him, no less than to her, the reality so greatly
differed from the prefiguring.

She peered out as well as the window, beaded with drops, would
allow her, and saw only the lamps, which had just been lit,
blinking in the wet atmosphere, and rows of hideous zinc chimney-
pipes in dim relief against the sky. She writhed uneasily, as
when a thought is swelling in the mind which must cause much pain
at its deliverance in words. Elfride had known no more about the
stings of evil report than the native wild-fowl knew of the
effects of Crusoe's first shot. Now she saw a little further, and
a little further still.

The train stopped. Stephen relinquished the soft hand he had held
all the day, and proceeded to assist her on to the platform.