He raised his hat from his head awkwardly, muttering he scarcely knew what, as he heard her voice again. He backed away from her as she essayed to draw nearer, and stumbled, almost drunkenly, while she stood regarding him in open wonder. Then he turned and fled from her, fled from her, abashed and tingling, fled from her blindly, like a field-mouse from a coiled blacksnake.
He did not stop until he had rounded a street-corner. He felt, as he did so, that he was demeaning his manhood before some possible high adventure. He vaguely suspected that one of life's vast occasions had slipped away from him unrecognised. But he was still afraid, foolishly afraid. He was glad to dip deeper and deeper into the city, as though it were a cleansing bath that might wash away his lubberly awkwardness. He was glad when the fog crept into the streets and helped to obliterate him and his shame. He was glad to wander unknown and unrecognised about the grey-draped solitude that engulfed him.
He knew that the woman had not followed him. But all that afternoon he wandered and tarried and walked about with the feeling that he was not alone. He kept looking over his shoulder from time to time, pondering some wordless yet persistent sense of disquiet. He
