"How cime you to leave your last plice?" was one shrill question.
In utter weariness Phyllis at last consented to John's suggestion; he would make a preliminary survey and she should be called into counsel only in promising cases. They were few enough. She walked up and down monotonous streets while John was indoors; to be told, time after time, that was not the place they sought.
Even John might have been discouraged; on the contrary, that young man's chin rose to his difficulties. But Phyllis's eyes grew more and more troubled when darkness fell, and the lights in windows reminded them that they were still homeless.
Seeking new bills, "To Let," they found themselves in a small square, surrounded by houses; a fine neighborhood in its day.
"Oh dear, John, I fear I can walk no farther," said Phyllis. "We must go to a hotel after all, though I detest the idea. My shoes are worn through."
He led her to a bench in the little square, and kneeling before her took off one shoe, and then the other, and carefully fitted each with a new sole, made from a page of "The Daily Chronicle."
"If I fail as a poet I shall be a cobbler," he said to her brightly.
He sat down beside her. "My dearest, I am so sorry. I have blundered through this afternoon, horribly. Perhaps I should have taken you to my own room at once, poor as it is. Perhaps I should have sought advice from Mrs. Thorpe. Perhaps I should have insisted on a hotel, for a few days, until we could look about. At least, we might have had a cab. I have been most inconsiderate. I am so strong in the new hope and strength you have given me that I haven't thought enough for you. My poor, tired Phyllis."
He held her hands; his face contrite. She was too dispirited for words, but she patted his hand softly.
As they sat there, John saw a lighted shop-window, not fifty yards distant.