Usually he walked home by the Hampstead Road. Only occasionally,
when the beauty of the evening tempted him, would he take the longer
way by Regent Street and through the Park. But so often it made him
feel sad, the quiet Park, forcing upon him the sense of his own
loneliness.
He would walk down merely as far as the Great Vase, so he arranged
with himself. If she were not there--it was not likely that she
would be--he would turn back into Albany Street. The newsvendors'
shops with their display of the cheaper illustrated papers, the
second-hand furniture dealers with their faded engravings and old
prints, would give him something to look at, to take away his
thoughts from himself. But seeing her in the distance, almost the
moment he had entered the gate, it came to him how disappointed he
would have been had the seat in front of the red tulip bed been
vacant. A little away from her he paused, turning to look at the
flowers. He thought that, waiting his opportunity, he might be able
to steal a glance at her undetected. Once for a moment he did so,
but venturing a second time their eyes met, or he fancied they did,
and blushing furiously he hurried past. But again she came with
him, or, rather, preceded him. On each empty seat between him and
the sinking sun he saw her quite plainly: the pale oval face and
the brown shoes, and, between them, the fawn gloves folded one upon
the other.
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