Then there came over him a vision of her as he had last seen her that October afternoon with Scarfe in Regent’s Park. With a groan he gathered together his papers, and bidding Tim mind the baby till he returned, seized his hat and hurried from the room. On the dark, narrow staircase he brushed against a dress which he knew must be hers. For a moment he was tempted to pause, if only for a look at her face; but she passed on, and was gone before he could turn.
He went out miserably into the street, and waited within view of the entrance to the alley till she should come out. She was long before she appeared—he guessed how those two friendless little orphans would detain her. When she came her veil was down, and in the crowd on the pavement he lost sight of her in a moment. Yet he knew her, and all his resolution once more wavered, as he reflected that he was still within reach of her voice and her smile.
He returned anxiously to the attic. The baby lay asleep on the bed, and Tim, perched on his window seat, was crooning over a little doll.
There was a flower on the table; the scanty furniture of the room had been set in order, and his quick eye even noticed that a rent in Tim’s frock which had caused him some concern in the morning had been neatly mended.
Tim came and put the little doll into his hands.
“She gave it me. Will she soon come again?” said the child.
“Yes; she’s sure to come again.”
“You ran away; you was afraid. I wasn’t.”
In a strange turmoil of emotions Jeffreys resumed his writing. The flower in the cup beside him was only a half-withered aster, yet it seemed to him to perfume the room.
After dark the neighbour put her head into the room.