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 traffic and the people. Windows caught the departing flame, held it for an instant, and sank into grey twilight.

“I know what you're thinking about me,” Peter's companion suddenly said (he was walking very fast as though trying to catch something), “I know you don't like me. I could see it at once—I never made a mistake about those things. You were saying to yourself: ‘What does that horrible, over-dressed stranger want to come interfering with me for?’”

“Indeed, I wasn't,” said Peter, breathlessly, because the bag was so heavy and they were walking so fast.

“Oh, yes, you were. Never mind. I'm not a popular man, and when you know me better you'll like me still less. That's always the way I affect people. And always with the best intentions. And you were thinking, too, that you never saw anything less Italian than I am, and you're sure my name's Brown or Smith, and indeed it's true that I was born in Clapham, but my parents were Italians—refugees, you know, although I'm sure I don't know what from—and every one calls me the Signor, and so there you are—and I don't see how I'm to help it. But that's just me all over—always fighting against the tide but I don't complain, I'm sure.” All this said very rapidly and in a melancholy way as though tears were not very far off. Then he suddenly added:

“Let me carry your bag for you.”

“No, thank you,” said Peter, laughing, “I can manage it.”

“Ah, well, you look strong,” said the Signor appreciatively. “I envy you, I'm sure—never had a day's health myself—but I don't complain.”

By this time they had passed the British Museum and were entering into the shadows of Bloomsbury, At this hour, when the lamps and the stars are coming out, and the sun is going in, Bloomsbury has an air of melancholy that is peculiarly its own. The dark grey houses stand as a perpetual witness of those people that have found life too hard for them and have been compelled to give in. The streets of those melancholy squares seen beneath flickering lamp light and a wan moon protest against all gaiety of spirit and urge resignation and a mournful acquiescence.