An Unwritten Novel.

my world's done for ! What do I stand on ?
What do I know ? That's not Minnie. There
never was Moggridge. Who am I ? Life's
bare as bone.

And yet the last look of them—he stepping
from the kerb and she following him round the
edge of the big building brims me with wonder—
floods me anew. Mysterious figures ! Mother
and son. Who are you ? Why do you walk
down the street ? Where to-night will you sleep,
and then, to-morrow ? Oh, how it whirls and
surges—floats me afresh ! I start after them.
People drive this way and that. The white light-
splutters and pours. Plate-glass windows. Car-
nations; chrysanthemums. Ivy in dark gardens.
Milk carts at the door. Wherever I go, myster-
ious figures, I see you, turning the corner,
mothers and sons; you, you, you. I hasten, I
follow. This, I fancy, must be the sea. Grey
is the landscape; dim as ashes; the water mur-
murs and moves. If I fall on my knees, if I go
through the ritual, the ancient antics, it's you,
unknown figures, you I adore; if I open my
arms, it's you I embrace, you I draw to me—
adorable world !

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