It was the moment of suspense in Piccadilly; the tide had flowed up to
the theatres, and had not yet begun to ebb. The tranquil trees, still
feathery, draped their branches along the farther bank of that broad
river, resting from their watch over the tragi-comedies played on its
surface by men, their small companions. The gentle sighs which distilled
from their plume-like boughs seemed utterances of the softest wisdom.
Not far beyond their trunks it was all dark velvet, into which separate
shapes, adventuring, were lost, as wild birds vanishing in space, or the
souls of men received into their Mother's heart.
Hilary walked, hearing no sighs of wisdom, noting no smooth darkness,
wrapped in thought. The mere fact of having given pleasure was enough
to produce a warm sensation in a man so naturally kind. But, as with
all self-conscious, self-distrustful, natures, that sensation had not
lasted. He was left with a feeling of emptiness and disillusionment, as
of having given himself a good mark without reason.
While walking, he was a target for the eyes of many women, who passed
him rapidly, like ships in sail. The special fastidious shyness of his
face attracted those accustomed to another kind of face. And though
he did not precisely look at them, they in turn inspired in him the
compassionate, morbid curiosity which persons who live desperate lives
necessarily inspire in the leisured, speculative mind.
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