He only loves thee best who, being divorced from thee, comes to thee again out of the years. He flips thy mantle with no cockney familiarity, but hears in the hollows of his reverent ears the æolian whisperings of thy large significance....
The sound of footsteps ceased to rouse the echoes in the empty street, as Noll came to a halt before Netherby Gomme’s doorway. He hesitated for a moment; ran up the steps; and rang the bell.
The smoky twilight that held the place was passing into sooty darkness, turning the staid street of lodging-houses into a way of fairy habitations, the lemon flames of gas-lamps showing a sweeping curve of light down its long length to the far rumble of the city’s distant traffic.
A key coughed in its wards as it shot back the bolts of the lock; and the door yawned open.
Noll turned at the sound of its unlatching.
The mother of Netherby Gomme stood in the dark hollow of the doorway; and a grim triumph lurked in her eyes.
Noll saluted her, hat in hand; and she returned his greeting with a grave smile of surprise.
“Is Netherby at home, Mrs. Gomme?” he asked.
The grim triumph slipped back to her eyes, and came lurking into the corners of the old mouth again:
“He came home from his honeymoon to-day, Noll,” she said—“will you go up and see him?”