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Where he went to he hardly knew. He remembered wandering through

dimly lit streets, past gaunt, black-shadowed archways and

evil-looking houses. Women with hoarse voices and harsh laughter

had called after him. Drunkards had reeled by, cursing and

chattering to themselves like monstrous apes. He had seen

grotesque children huddled upon door-steps, and heard shrieks and

oaths from gloomy courts.

As the dawn was just breaking, he found himself close to Covent

Garden. The darkness lifted, and, flushed with faint fires, the

sky hollowed itself into a perfect pearl. Huge carts filled with

nodding lilies rumbled slowly down the polished empty street. The

air was heavy with the perfume of the flowers, and their beauty

seemed to bring him an anodyne for his pain. He followed into the

market and watched the men unloading their waggons. A

white-smocked carter offered him some cherries. He thanked him,

wondered why he refused to accept any money for them, and began

to eat them listlessly. They had been plucked at midnight, and

the coldness of the moon had entered into them. A long line of

boys carrying crates of striped tulips, and of yellow and red

roses, defiled in front of him, threading their way through the

huge, jade-green piles of vegetables. Under the portico, with its

grey, sun-bleached pillars, loitered a troop of draggled

bareheaded girls, waiting for the auction to be over.