THE CROWN OF LIFE
CHAPTER I
Amid the throng of suburban arrivals volleyed forth from Waterloo Station on a May morning in the year '86, moved a slim, dark, absent-looking young man of one-and- twenty, whose name was Piers Otway. In regard to costume—blameless silk hat, and dark morning coat with lighter trousers—the City would not have disowned him, but he had not the City countenance. The rush for omnibus seats left him unconcerned; clear of the railway station, he walked at a moderate pace, his eyes mostly on the ground; he crossed the foot-bridge to Charing Cross, and steadily made his way into the Haymarket, where his progress was arrested by a picture shop.
A window hung with engravings, mostly after pictures of the
day; some of them very large, and attractive to a passing
glance. One or two admirable landscapes offered solace to
the street-wearied imagination, but upon these Piers Otway
did not fix his eye; it was drawn irresistibly to the faces and
forms of beautiful women set forth with varied allurement.
Some great lady of the passing time lounged in exquisite array
amid luxurious furniture lightly suggested; the faint smile of
her flattered loveliness hovered about the gazer; the subtle
perfume of her presence touched his nerves; the greys of her
complexion transmuted themselves through the current of his
blood into life's carnation; whilst he dreamed upon her lips,
his breath was caught, as though of a sudden she had smiled
for him, and for him alone. Near to her was a maiden of
Hellas, resting upon a marble seat, her eyes bent towards
some Ægean isle; the translucent robe clung about her
1
