I was still boiling ten minutes later, though I’d begun to call myself a fool. I took a good look at my boots in the open daylight. It was a muggy day, with the sun struggling to get through the clouds and not quite bringing it off; but even without the sun to show them up, I’m bound to say those boots gave me a sick, discouraged sort of feeling; because when your boots go, it’s all up with you as far as job-hunting’s concerned. I knew the soles were pretty far gone. Soles don’t matter so long as the uppers hold. Well, mine weren’t going to hold much longer. I’ve always been hard on a left shoe, and I could feel the brute giving as I walked. It will be through by to-morrow.

I thought about that pretty soberly. To-morrow began to look like being a small private edition of the end of the world as far as I was concerned. I owe three weeks’ rent, and three is Mrs. Bell’s limit. It would be “pay or go”; and I certainly couldn’t pay.

I turned the corner, and came face to face with Isobel Tarrant.

I don’t think I’ve ever had such a shock. I’d got pretty far down amongst cheery visions of what was likely to happen if I didn’t get a job in the next few hours. And then to see Isobel like that! I don’t think I can explain how I felt, but Isobel hadn’t any business to be within a thousand miles of the things I was thinking about. I felt as if I’d met her in some beastly slum, and as if it was my fault that she was there; and I felt as if I didn’t care whether it was a slum or not, or how much she oughtn’t to be there, so long as I was seeing her again. It’s three years since I’ve seen Isobel- and I saw her this morning. What’s the good of pretending? I’m not writing all this down because something rather odd happened afterwards; I’m writing because I want to write about Isobel-because I’ve been starving for her, and pretending to myself that I’ve forgotten.