The Bench of Desolation

On a certain October Saturday he had got off as usual, early; but the afternoon light, his pilgrimage drawing to its aim, could still show him, at long range, the rare case of an established usurper. His impulse was then, as by custom, to deviate a little and wait, all the more that the occupant of the bench was a lady, and that ladies, when alone, were – at that austere end of the varied frontal stretch – markedly discontinuous; but he kept on at sight of this person’s rising, while he was still fifty yards off, and proceeding.