As she neared the bottom of the dip in Piccadilly she saw a woman approaching her from the opposite direction—a tall woman who at the first glance seemed altogether beautiful and fine. Mind, I am anticipating events. Yet the smoke was curling upwards in a faint innocent-looking cloud to the ceiling. . “Why—it’s—it’s you!” Amazement seemed to dry up the torrents of his speech. It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls. . Hot coffee and cakes were sent in to them in the morning by some intelligent sympathizer, or she would have starved all day. By the time I had recovered myself she had gone. I did not care—no woman really cares—to play the beggar maid to your King Cophetua. The advanced guard rode on to drive away any opposition, while the main body of the procession crossed the bridge, and slowly toiled up Holborn Hill.
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