She had long since learned to know it for a feeble one, though its feebleness was perhaps scarce the reason for her saying to herself each evening as her time for departure approached: "No, no--not to-night." She never failed of that silent remark, any more than she failed of feeling, in some deeper place than she had even yet fully sounded, that one's remarks were as weak as straws and that, however one might indulge in them at eight o'clock, one's fate infallibly declared itself in absolute indifference to them at about eight-fifteen.
Remarks were remarks, and very well for that; but fate was fate, and this young lady's was to pass Park Chambers every night in the working week.
Out of the immensity of her knowledge of the life of the world there bloomed on these occasions as specific remembrance that it was regarded in that region, in August and September, as rather pleasant just to be caught for something or other in passing through town.

Somebody was always passing and somebody might catch somebody else.

It was in full cognisance of this subtle law that she adhered to the most ridiculous circuit she could have made to get home.

One warm dull featureless Friday, when an accident had made her start from Cocker's a little later than usual, she became aware that something of which the infinite possibilities had for so long peopled her dreams was at last prodigiously upon her, though the perfection in which the conditions happened to present it was almost rich enough to be but the positive creation of a dream.

She saw, straight before her, like a vista painted in a picture, the empty street and the lamps that burned pale in the dusk not yet established.