She hung about his chair, followed him to the door, touched his sleeve timidly, all the while striving to pronounce the words which refused to rise to her tongue. On the next morning—Sunday—the day on which he expected his mother's funeral to take place, he set out along the Harrow Road. For five minutes he has been trying to think of something to say. Only I do not care to write about anything else. For a time she looked at no more apartments, and walked through gaunt and ill-cleaned streets, through the sordid under side of life, perplexed and troubled, ashamed of her previous obtuseness.
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