TURGIS SEES HER 177

through with her train, Eros and the Hours and the
Graces, though of all that retinue only two remained
with him, to see him home, Pothos and Himeros, shapes
of longing and yearning,

) The paper slipped from his fingers. His eyes closed;
his jaw dropped a little; and his head turned on the
pillow, so that the light of the gas-fire, now coming to
life in the dwindling daylight, for the window was no
brighter than a slate, played faintly but rosily on his
features, the pleasant width of brow, the nose that had
missed masterfulness, the round chin that fell away, and
as his breathing grew more regular and he slipped into
unconsciousness, that light brought something at once
grotesque and sad, the red gleam and deep shadow of
some Gothic tragedy, into the little room. And for an
hour or so Turgis slept, while Saturday went rattling
and roaring on, gathering momentum, through the dark
little abysses of brick and smoke outside, the streets of
London.

THE Turgis who came out of 9, Nathaniel Street, later
that Saturday afternoon, was quite different from the
youth we have already met. He was washed, brushed,
conscientiously shaved, and he moved briskly. This was
for him the best time of all the week. Saturday sang in
his heart. If the Great Something ever happened, it
would happen on Saturday. The trams, buses, shops,
bars, theatres, and picture palaces, they all gleamed and
glittered through the rich murk to-da) for him. Even