There was a hint of tears in her voice. He walked her home. He still wore his hat, to show that the days of miracles and Christ being civil to sinners are over forever. When he comes he will do that raid of the pantechnicons the justice it deserves; he will picture the orderly evening scene about the Imperial Legislature in convincing detail, the coming and going of cabs and motor-cabs and broughams through the chill, damp evening into New Palace Yard, the reinforced but untroubled and unsuspecting police about the entries of those great buildings whose square and panelled Victorian Gothic streams up from the glare of the lamps into the murkiness of the night; Big Ben shining overhead, an unassailable beacon, and the incidental traffic of Westminster, cabs, carts, and glowing omnibuses going to and from the bridge. It seemed to show a want of affection, to be a deliberate and unmerited disregard, to justify the reprisal of being hurt. But it wasn’t the harassment that bothered her.
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