"Margaret went along the walk under the pear-tree wall. She had never been along it since she paced it at Henry Lennox's side. Here at this bed of thyme he began to speak of what she must not think of now. Her eyes were on that late- blowing rose as she was trying to answer; and she had caught the idea of the vivid beauty of the feathery leaves of the carrots in the very middle of his last sentence. Only a fortnight ago! And all so changed! Where was he now? In London going through the old round; dining with the old Harley Street set or with gayer young friends of his own. Even now while she walked sadly through that damp and drear garden in the dusk with everything falling and fading and turning to decay around her he might be gladly putting away his law-books after a day of satisfactory toil and freshening himself up as he had told her he often did by a run in the Temple Gardens taking in the while the grand inarticulate mighty roar of tens of thousands of busy men nigh at hand but not seen and catching ever at his quick turns glimpses of the lights of the city coming up out of the depths of the river."