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dreaming of the time when he would hold them in his own； caressing
them； kissing them。 Would it be possible to forget them； to
reconcile oneself to them？ He must thinkmust get away from these
crowded streets where faces seemed to grin at him。 He remembered
that Parliament had just risen； that work was slack in the office。
He would ask that he might take his holiday nowthe next day。 And
they had agreed。
He packed a few things into a knapsack。 From the voices of the
hills and streams he would find counsel。
He took no count of his wanderings。 One evening at a lonely inn he
met a young doctor。 The innkeeper's wife was expecting to be taken
with child that night； and the doctor was waiting downstairs till
summoned。 While they were talking； the idea came to him。 Why had
he not thought of it？ Overcoming his shyness； he put his questions。
What work would it be that would cause such injuries？ He described
them； seeing them before him in the shadows of the dimly lighted
room； those poor； pitiful little hands。
Oh！ a dozen things might account for itthe doctor's voice sounded
callousthe handling of flax； even of linen under certain
conditions。 Chemicals entered so much nowadays into all sorts of
processes and preparations。 All this new photography； cheap colour
printing； dyeing and cleaning； metal work。 Might all be avoided by
providing rubber gloves。 It ought to be made compulsory。 The
doctor seemed inclined to hold forth。 He interrupted him。
But could it be cured？ Was there any hope？
Cured？ Hope？ Of course it could be cured。 It was only localthe
effect being confined to the hands proved that。 A poisoned
condition of the skin aggravated by general poverty of blood。 Take
her away from it； let her have plenty of fresh air and careful diet；
using some such simple ointment or another as any local man； seeing
them； would prescribe； and in three or four months they would
recover。
He could hardly stay to thank the young doctor。 He wanted to get
away by himself； to shout； to wave his arms； to leap。 Had it been
possible he would have returned that very night。 He cursed himself
for the fancifulness that had prevented his inquiring her address。
He could have sent a telegram。 Rising at dawn； for he had not
attempted to sleep； he walked the ten miles to the nearest railway
station； and waited for the train。 All day long it seemed to creep
with him through the endless country。 But London came at last。
It was still the afternoon； but he did not care to go to his room。
Leaving his knapsack at the station； he made his way to Westminster。
He wanted all things to be unchanged； so that between this evening
and their parting it might seem as if there had merely passed an
ugly dream； and timing himself； he reached the park just at their
usual hour。
He waited till the gates were closed； but she did not come。 All day
long at the back of his mind had been that fear； but he had driven
it away。 She was ill； just a headache； or merely tired。
And the next evening he told himself the same。 He dared not whisper
to himself anything else。 And each succeeding evening again。 He
never remembered how many。 For a time he would sit watching the
path by which she had always come； and when the hour was long past
he would rise and walk towards the gate； look east and west； and
then return。 One evening he stopped one of the park…keepers and
questioned him。 Yes； the man remembered her quite well： the young
lady with the fawn gloves。 She had come once or twicemaybe
oftener； the park…keeper could not be sureand had waited。 No；
there had been nothing to show that she was in any way upset。 She
had just sat there for a time； now and then walking a little way and
then coming back again； until the closing hour； and then she had
gone。 He left his address with the park…keeper。 The man promised
to let him know if he ever saw her there again。
Sometimes； instead of the park； he would haunt the mean streets
about Lisson Grove and far beyond the other side of the Edgware
Road； pacing them till night fell。 But he never found her。
He wondered； beating against the bars of his poverty； if money would
have helped him。 But the grim； endless city； hiding its million
secrets； seemed to mock the thought。 A few pounds he had scraped
together he spent in advertisements； but he expected no response；
and none came。 It was not likely she would see them。
And so after a time the park； and even the streets round about it；
became hateful to him； and he moved away to another part of London；
hoping to forget。 But he never quite succeeded。 Always it would
come back to him when he was not thinking： the broad； quiet walk
with its prim trees and gay beds of flowers。 And always he would
see her seated there； framed by the fading light。 At least； that
much of her： the little spiritual face； and the brown shoes
pointing downwards； and between them the little fawn gloves folded
upon her lap。
End