Down the street that falls from Colchester to Hythe, on an evening in high summer, there walked a young woman. None accosted her, for none knew her. A man or two turned a second glance upon her, because she was fair to see and her widow's weeds made a striking frame for the picture of her corn-coloured hair, grey eyes, and beautiful mouth; but she was a stranger, and, as she strolled down Hythe Hill, she reﬂected that not a soul of all the thou sands circling round about her had ever seen her face or heard her name. The thought cheered her rather than cast her down. Resolution and humour both horned in her expression; her almond-shaped eyes were keen, her mouth was wide awake. The lips moved and tightened sometimes. She looked about her and marked everything; occasionally she lifted her hands to shut in a picture, or half closed her eyes to get the colour values of a scene, as artists will. She wore little crape, yet contrived to make it clear that she was a widow, newly made. Her interest in the scene about her was fitful, for between moments of attention to the life and bustle of the quays on Colne river-side, the woman retreated into herself. But out ward forms of things their lines and colours and move ments — continually attracted her eyes and distracted her thoughts.