" "Nonsense," returned Jonathan gruffly. My thanks, by the by. “Good evening, Dorling,” he said. But after all, what did it matter whether she had secrets or not? To him she was not a woman but a symbol; and one did not investigate the antecedents of symbols. He could not pull her soul apart now to satisfy that queer absorbing, delving thing which was his literary curiosity; he had put her outside that circle. She was perplexed by this, and stood for some seconds in the empty street hesitating, until the appearance of another circumspect woman under the street lamp at the corner reassured her. "Jack!" she cried, raising her head. “Election be hanged!” he exclaimed. She herself, and one other there, recognized the interposition of something akin to tragedy. ‘Too late by the time I realised to what a dunderhead I’d pledged my friendship.
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