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“At times, knowing that if we stopped another moment in these rooms we should scream, we would steal softly out and rush downstairs, and, shutting ourselves out of hearing in a cellar underneath the yard, laugh till we reeled against the dirty walls. I think we were both getting a little mad.

“One day – it was the third of that nightmare life, so I learned afterwards, though for all I could have told then it might have been the three hundredth, for Time seemed to have fled from that house as from a dream, so that all things were tangled – I made a slip that came near to ending the matter, then and there.

“I had gone into that other room. Jeanie had left her post for a moment, and the place was empty.

“I did not think what I was doing. I had not closed my eyes that I can remember since the wife had died, and my brain and my senses were losing their hold of one another. I went through my usual performance of talking loudly to the thing underneath the white sheet, and noisily patting the pillows and rattling the bottles on the table.

“On my return, he asked me how she was, and I answered, half in a dream, ‘Oh, bonny, she’s trying to read a little,’ and he raised himself on his elbow and called out to her, and for answer there came back silence – not the silence that is silence, but the silence that is as a voice. I do not know if you understand what I mean by that. If you had lived among the dead as long as I have, you would know.

“I darted to the door and pretended to look in. ‘She’s fallen asleep,’ I whispered, closing it; and he said nothing, but his eyes looked queerly at me.

“That night, Jeanie and I stood in the hall talking. He had fallen to sleep early, and I had locked the door between the two rooms, and put the key in my pocket, and had stolen down to tell her what had happened, and to consult with her.

“‘What can we do! God help us, what can we do!’ was all that Jeanie could say. We had thought that in a day or two he would be stronger, and that the truth might be broken to him. But instead of that he had grown so weak, that to excite his suspicions now by moving him or her would be to kill him.

“We stood looking blankly in each other’s faces, wondering how the problem could be solved; and while we did so the problem solved itself.

“The one woman-servant had gone out, and the house was very silent – so silent that I could hear the ticking of Jeanie’s watch inside her dress. Suddenly, into the stillness there came a sound. It was not a cry. It came from no human voice. I have heard the voice of human pain till I know its every note, and have grown careless to it; but I have prayed God on my knees that I may never hear that sound again, for it was the sob of a soul.

“It wailed through the quiet house and passed away, and neither of us stirred.

“At length, with the return of the blood to our veins, we went upstairs together. He had crept from his own room along the passage into hers. He had not had strength enough to pull the sheet off, though he had tried. He lay across the bed with one hand grasping hers.”

* * * * *

My nurse sat for a while without speaking, a somewhat unusual thing for her to do.

“You ought to write your experiences,” I said.

“Ah!” she said, giving the fire a contemplative poke, “if you’d seen as much sorrow in the world as I have, you wouldn’t want to write a sad book.”

“I think,” she added, after a long pause, with the poker still in her hand, “it can only be the people who have never known suffering who can care to read of it. If I could write a book, I should write a merry book – a book that would make people laugh.”

CHAPTER IX

The discussion arose in this way. I had proposed a match between our villain and the daughter of the local chemist, a singularly noble and pure-minded girl, the humble but worthy friend of the heroine.

Brown had refused his consent on the ground of improbability. “What in thunder would induce him to marry her?” he asked.

“Love!” I replied; “love, that burns as brightly in the meanest villain’s breast as in the proud heart of the good young man.”

“Are you trying to be light and amusing,” returned Brown, severely, “or are you supposed to be discussing the matter seriously? What attraction could such a girl have for such a man as Reuben Neil?”

“Every attraction,” I retorted. “She is the exact moral contrast to himself. She is beautiful (if she’s not beautiful enough, we can touch her up a bit), and, when the father dies, there will be the shop.”

“Besides,” I added, “it will make the thing seem more natural if everybody wonders what on earth could have been the reason for their marrying each other.”

Brown wasted no further words on me, but turned to MacShaughnassy.

“Can you imagine our friend Reuben seized with a burning desire to marry Mary Holme?” he asked, with a smile.

“Of course I can,” said MacShaughnassy; “I can imagine anything, and believe anything of anybody. It is only in novels that people act reasonably and in accordance with what might be expected of them. I knew an old sea-captain who used to read the Young Ladies’ Journal in bed, and cry over it. I knew a bookmaker who always carried Browning’s poems about with him in his pocket to study in the train. I have known a Harley Street doctor to develop at forty-eight a sudden and overmastering passion for switchbacks, and to spend every hour he could spare from his practice at one or other of the exhibitions, having three-pen’orths one after the other. I have known a book-reviewer give oranges (not poisoned ones) to children. A man is not a character, he is a dozen characters, one of them prominent, the other eleven more or less undeveloped. I knew a man once, two of whose characters were of equal value, and the consequences were peculiar.”

We begged him to relate the case to us, and he did so.

“He was a Balliol man,” said MacShaughnassy, “and his Christian name was Joseph. He was a member of the ‘Devonshire’ at the time I knew him, and was, I think, the most superior person I have ever met. He sneered at the Saturday Review as the pet journal of the suburban literary club; and at the Athenæum as the trade organ of the unsuccessful writer. Thackeray, he considered, was fairly entitled to his position of favourite author to the cultured clerk; and Carlyle he regarded as the exponent of the earnest artisan. Living authors he never read, but this did not prevent his criticising them contemptuously. The only inhabitants of the nineteenth century that he ever praised were a few obscure French novelists, of whom nobody but himself had ever heard. He had his own opinion about God Almighty, and objected to Heaven on account of the strong Clapham contingent likely to be found in residence there. Humour made him sad, and sentiment made him ill. Art irritated him and science bored him. He despised his own family and disliked everybody else. For exercise he yawned, and his conversation was mainly confined to an occasional shrug.

“Nobody liked him, but everybody respected him. One felt grateful to him for his condescension in living at all.

“One summer, I was fishing over the Norfolk Broads, and on the Bank Holiday, thinking I would like to see the London ’Arry in his glory, I ran over to Yarmouth. Walking along the sea-front in the evening, I suddenly found myself confronted by four remarkably choice specimens of the class. They were urging on their wild and erratic career arm-in-arm. The one nearest the road was playing an unusually wheezy concertina, and the other three were bawling out the chorus of a music-hall song, the heroine of which appeared to be ‘Hemmer.’

“They spread themselves right across the pavement, compelling all the women and children they met to step into the roadway. I stood my ground on the kerb, and as they brushed by me something in the face of the one with the concertina struck me as familiar.

“I turned and followed them. They were evidently enjoying themselves immensely. To every girl they passed they yelled out, ‘Oh, you little jam tart!’ and every old lady they addressed as ‘Mar.’ The noisiest and the most vulgar of the four was the one with the concertina.

“I followed them on to the pier, and then, hurrying past, waited for them under a gas-lamp. When the man with the concertina came into the light and I saw him clearly I started. From the face I could have sworn it was Joseph; but everything else about him rendered such an assumption impossible. Putting aside the time and the place, and forgetting his behaviour, his companions, and his instrument, what remained was sufficient to make the suggestion absurd. Joseph was always clean shaven; this youth had a smudgy moustache and a pair of incipient red whiskers. He was dressed in the loudest check suit I have ever seen, off the stage. He wore patent-leather boots with mother-of-pearl buttons, and a necktie that in an earlier age would have called down lightning out of Heaven. He had a low-crowned billycock hat on his head, and a big evil-smelling cigar between his lips.

“Argue as I would, however, the face was the face of Joseph; and, moved by a curiosity I could not control, I kept near him, watching him.

“Once, for a little while, I missed him; but there was not much fear of losing that suit for long, and after a little looking about I struck it again. He was sitting at the end of the pier, where it was less crowded, with his arm round a girl’s waist. I crept close. She was a jolly, red-faced girl, good-looking enough, but common to the last degree. Her hat lay on the seat beside her, and her head was resting on his shoulder. She appeared to be fond of him, but he was evidently bored.

“‘Don’tcher like me, Joe?’ I heard her murmur.

“‘Yas,’ he replied, somewhat unconvincingly, ‘o’ course I likes yer.’

“She gave him an affectionate slap, but he did not respond, and a few minutes afterwards, muttering some excuse, he rose and left her, and I followed him as he made his way towards the refreshment-room. At the door he met one of his pals.

“‘Hullo!’ was the question, ‘wot ’a yer done wi’ ’Liza?’

“‘Oh, I carn’t stand ’er,’ was his reply; ‘she gives me the bloomin’ ’ump. You ’ave a turn with ’er.’

“His friend disappeared in the direction of ’Liza, and Joe pushed into the room, I keeping close behind him. Now that he was alone I was determined to speak to him. The longer I had studied his features the more resemblance I had found in them to those of my superior friend Joseph.

“He was leaning across the bar, clamouring for two of gin, when I tapped him on the shoulder. He turned his head, and the moment he saw me, his face went livid.

“‘Mr. Joseph Smythe, I believe,’ I said with a smile.

“‘Who’s Mr. Joseph Smythe?’ he answered hoarsely; ‘my name’s Smith, I ain’t no bloomin’ Smythe. Who are you? I don’t know yer.’

“As he spoke, my eyes rested upon a curious gold ring of Indian workmanship which he wore upon his left hand. There was no mistaking the ring, at all events: it had been passed round the club on more than one occasion as a unique curiosity. His eyes followed my gaze. He burst into tears, and pushing me before him into a quiet corner of the saloon, sat down facing me.

“‘Don’t give me away, old man,’ he whimpered; ‘for Gawd’s sake, don’t let on to any of the chaps ’ere that I’m a member of that blessed old waxwork show in Saint James’s: they’d never speak to me agen. And keep yer mug shut about Oxford, there’s a good sort. I wouldn’t ’ave ’em know as ’ow I was one o’ them college blokes for anythink.’

“I sat aghast. I had listened to hear him entreat me to keep ‘Smith,’ the rorty ’Arry, a secret from the acquaintances of ‘Smythe,’ the superior person. Here was ‘Smith’ in mortal terror lest his pals should hear of his identity with the aristocratic ‘Smythe,’ and discard him. His attitude puzzled me at the time, but, when I came to reflect, my wonder was at myself for having expected the opposite.

“‘I carn’t ’elp it,’ he went on; ‘I ’ave to live two lives. ’Arf my time I’m a stuck-up prig, as orter be jolly well kicked – ’

“‘At which times,’ I interrupted, ‘I have heard you express some extremely uncomplimentary opinions concerning ’Arries.’

“‘I know,’ he replied, in a voice betraying strong emotion; ‘that’s where it’s so precious rough on me. When I’m a toff I despises myself, ’cos I knows that underneath my sneering phiz I’m a bloomin’ ’Arry. When I’m an ’Arry, I ’ates myself ’cos I knows I’m a toff.’

“‘Can’t you decide which character you prefer, and stick to it?’ I asked.

“‘No,’ he answered, ‘I carn’t. It’s a rum thing, but whichever I am, sure as fate, ’bout the end of a month I begin to get sick o’ myself.’

“‘I can quite understand it,’ I murmured; ‘I should give way myself in a fortnight.’

“‘I’ve been myself, now,’ he continued, without noticing my remark, ‘for somethin’ like ten days. One mornin’, in ’bout three weeks’ time, I shall get up in my diggins in the Mile End Road, and I shall look round the room, and at these clothes ’angin’ over the bed, and at this yer concertina’ (he gave it an affectionate squeeze), ‘and I shall feel myself gettin’ scarlet all over. Then I shall jump out o’ bed, and look at myself in the glass. “You howling little cad,” I shall say to myself, “I have half a mind to strangle you”; and I shall shave myself, and put on a quiet blue serge suit and a bowler ’at, tell my landlady to keep my rooms for me till I comes back, slip out o’ the ’ouse, and into the fust ’ansom I meets, and back to the Halbany. And a month arter that, I shall come into my chambers at the Halbany, fling Voltaire and Parini into the fire, shy me ’at at the bust of good old ’Omer, slip on my blue suit agen, and back to the Mile End Road.’

“‘How do you explain your absence to both parties?’ I asked.

“‘Oh, that’s simple enough,’ he replied. ‘I just tells my ’ousekeeper at the Halbany as I’m goin’ on the Continong; and my mates ’ere thinks I’m a traveller.’

“‘Nobody misses me much,’ he added, pathetically; ‘I hain’t a partic’larly fetchin’ sort o’ bloke, either of me. I’m sich an out-and-outer. When I’m an ’Arry, I’m too much of an ’Arry, and when I’m a prig, I’m a reg’lar fust prize prig. Seems to me as if I was two ends of a man without any middle. If I could only mix myself up a bit more, I’d be all right.’

“He sniffed once or twice, and then he laughed. ‘Ah, well,’ he said, casting aside his momentary gloom; ‘it’s all a game, and wot’s the odds so long as yer ’appy. ’Ave a wet?’

“I declined the wet, and left him playing sentimental airs to himself upon the concertina.

“One afternoon, about a month later, the servant came to me with a card on which was engraved the name of ‘Mr. Joseph Smythe.’ I requested her to show him up. He entered with his usual air of languid superciliousness, and seated himself in a graceful attitude upon the sofa.

“‘Well,’ I said, as soon as the girl had closed the door behind her, ‘so you’ve got rid of Smith?’

“A sickly smile passed over his face. ‘You have not mentioned it to any one?’ he asked anxiously.

“‘Not to a soul,’ I replied; ‘though I confess I often feel tempted to.’

“‘I sincerely trust you never will,’ he said, in a tone of alarm. ‘You can have no conception of the misery the whole thing causes me. I cannot understand it. What possible affinity there can be between myself and that disgusting little snob passes my comprehension. I assure you, my dear Mac, the knowledge that I was a ghoul, or a vampire, would cause me less nausea than the reflection that I am one and the same with that odious little Whitechapel bounder. When I think of him every nerve in my body – ’

“‘Don’t think about him any more,’ I interrupted, perceiving his strongly-suppressed emotion. ‘You didn’t come here to talk about him, I’m sure. Let us dismiss him.’

“‘Well,’ he replied, ‘in a certain roundabout way it is slightly connected with him. That is really my excuse for inflicting the subject upon you. You are the only man I can speak to about it – if I shall not bore you?’

“‘Not in the least,’ I said. ‘I am most interested.’ As he still hesitated, I asked him point-blank what it was.

“He appeared embarrassed. ‘It is really very absurd of me,’ he said, while the faintest suspicion of pink crossed his usually colourless face; ‘but I feel I must talk to somebody about it. The fact is, my dear Mac, I am in love.’

“‘Capital!’ I cried; ‘I’m delighted to hear it.’ (I thought it might make a man of him.) ‘Do I know the lady?’

“‘I am inclined to think you must have seen her,’ he replied; ‘she was with me on the pier at Yarmouth that evening you met me.’

“‘Not ’Liza!’ I exclaimed.

“‘That was she,’ he answered; ‘Miss Elizabeth Muggins.’ He dwelt lovingly upon the name.

“‘But,’ I said, ‘you seemed – I really could not help noticing, it was so pronounced – you seemed to positively dislike her. Indeed, I gathered from your remark to a friend that her society was distinctly distasteful to you.’

“‘To Smith,’ he corrected me. ‘What judge would that howling little blackguard be of a woman’s worth! The dislike of such a man as that is a testimonial to her merit!’

“‘I may be mistaken,’ I said; ‘but she struck me as a bit common.’

“‘She is not, perhaps, what the world would call a lady,’ he admitted; ‘but then, my dear Mac, my opinion of the world is not such as to render its opinion of much value to me. I and the world differ on most subjects, I am glad to say. She is beautiful, and she is good, and she is my choice.’

“‘She’s a jolly enough little girl,’ I replied, ‘and, I should say, affectionate; but have you considered, Smythe, whether she is quite – what shall we say – quite as intellectual as could be desired?’

“‘Really, to tell the truth, I have not troubled myself much about her intellect,’ he replied, with one of his sneering smiles. ‘I have no doubt that the amount of intellect absolutely necessary to the formation of a British home, I shall be able to supply myself. I have no desire for an intellectual wife. One is compelled to meet tiresome people, but one does not live with them if one can avoid it.’

“‘No,’ he continued, reverting to his more natural tone; ‘the more I think of Elizabeth the more clear it becomes to me that she is the one woman in the world for whom marriage with me is possible. I perceive that to the superficial observer my selection must appear extraordinary. I do not pretend to explain it, or even to understand it. The study of mankind is beyond man. Only fools attempt it. Maybe it is her contrast to myself that attracts me. Maybe my, perhaps, too spiritual nature feels the need of contact with her coarser clay to perfect itself. I cannot tell. These things must always remain mysteries. I only know that I love her – that, if any reliance is to be placed upon instinct, she is the mate to whom Artemis is leading me.’

“It was clear that he was in love, and I therefore ceased to argue with him. ‘You kept up your acquaintanceship with her, then, after you’ – I was going to say ‘after you ceased to be Smith,’ but not wishing to agitate him by more mention of that person than I could help, I substituted, ‘after you returned to the Albany?’

“‘Not exactly,’ he replied; ‘I lost sight of her after I left Yarmouth, and I did not see her again until five days ago, when I came across her in an aerated bread shop. I had gone in to get a glass of milk and a bun, and she brought them to me. I recognised her in a moment.’ His face lighted up with quite a human smile. ‘I take tea there every afternoon now,’ he added, glancing towards the clock, ‘at four.’

“‘There’s not much need to ask her views on the subject,’ I said, laughing; ‘her feelings towards you were pretty evident.’

“‘Well, that is the curious part of it,’ he replied, with a return to his former embarrassment; ‘she does not seem to care for me now at all. Indeed, she positively refuses me. She says – to put it in the dear child’s own racy language – that she wouldn’t take me on at any price. She says it would be like marrying a clockwork figure without the key. She’s more frank than complimentary, but I like that.’

“‘Wait a minute,’ I said; ‘an idea occurs to me. Does she know of your identity with Smith?’

“‘No,’ he replied, alarmed, ‘I would not have her know it for worlds. Only yesterday she told me that I reminded her of a fellow she had met at Yarmouth, and my heart was in my mouth.’

“‘How did she look when she told you that?’ I asked.

“‘How did she look?’ he repeated, not understanding me.

“‘What was her expression at that moment?’ I said – ‘was it severe or tender?’

“‘Well,’ he replied, ‘now I come to think of it, she did seem to soften a bit just then.’

“‘My dear boy,’ I said, ‘the case is as clear as daylight. She loves Smith. No girl who admired Smith could be attracted by Smythe. As your present self you will never win her. In a few weeks’ time, however, you will be Smith. Leave the matter over until then. Propose to her as Smith, and she will accept you. After marriage you can break Smythe gently to her.’

“‘By Jove!’ he exclaimed, startled out of his customary lethargy, ‘I never thought of that. The truth is, when I am in my right senses, Smith and all his affairs seem like a dream to me. Any idea connected with him would never enter my mind.’

“He rose and held out his hand. ‘I am so glad I came to see you,’ he said; ‘your suggestion has almost reconciled me to my miserable fate. Indeed, I quite look forward to a month of Smith, now.’

“‘I’m so pleased,’ I answered, shaking hands with him. ‘Mind you come and tell me how you get on. Another man’s love affairs are not usually absorbing, but there is an element of interest about yours that renders the case exceptional.’

“We parted, and I did not see him again for another month. Then, late one evening, the servant knocked at my door to say that a Mr. Smith wished to see me.

“’Smith, Smith,’ I repeated; ‘what Smith? didn’t he give you a card?’

“‘No, sir,’ answered the girl; ‘he doesn’t look the sort that would have a card. He’s not a gentleman, sir; but he says you’ll know him.’ She evidently regarded the statement as an aspersion upon myself.

“I was about to tell her to say I was out, when the recollection of Smythe’s other self flashed into my mind, and I directed her to send him up.

“A minute passed, and then he entered. He was wearing a new suit of a louder pattern, if possible, than before. I think he must have designed it himself. He looked hot and greasy. He did not offer to shake hands, but sat down awkwardly on the extreme edge of a small chair, and gaped about the room as if he had never seen it before.

“He communicated his shyness to myself. I could not think what to say, and we sat for a while in painful silence.

“‘Well,’ I said, at last, plunging head-foremost into the matter, according to the method of shy people, ‘and how’s ’Liza?’

“‘Oh, she’s all right,’ he replied, keeping his eyes fixed on his hat.

“‘Have you done it?’ I continued.

“‘Done wot?’ he asked, looking up.

“‘Married her.’

“‘No,’ he answered, returning to the contemplation of his hat.

“‘Has she refused you then?’ I said.

“‘I ain’t arst ’er,’ he returned.

“He seemed unwilling to explain matters of his own accord. I had to put the conversation into the form of a cross-examination.

“‘Why not?’ I asked; ‘don’t you think she cares for you any longer?’

“He burst into a harsh laugh. ‘There ain’t much fear o’ that,’ he said; ‘it’s like ’aving an Alcock’s porous plaster mashed on yer, blowed if it ain’t. There’s no gettin’ rid of ’er. I wish she’d giv’ somebody else a turn. I’m fair sick of ’er.’

“‘But you were enthusiastic about her a month ago!’ I exclaimed in astonishment.

“‘Smythe may ’ave been,’ he said; ‘there ain’t no accounting for that ninny, ’is ’ead’s full of starch. Anyhow, I don’t take ’er on while I’m myself. I’m too jolly fly.’

“‘That sort o’ gal’s all right enough to lark with,’ he continued; ‘but yer don’t want to marry ’em. They don’t do yer no good. A man wants a wife as ’e can respect – some one as is a cut above ’imself, as will raise ’im up a peg or two – some one as ’e can look up to and worship. A man’s wife orter be to ’im a gawddess – a hangel, a – ’

“‘You appear to have met the lady,’ I remarked, interrupting him.

“He blushed scarlet, and became suddenly absorbed in the pattern of the carpet. But the next moment he looked up again, and his face seemed literally transformed.

“‘Oh! Mr. MacShaughnassy,’ he burst out, with a ring of genuine manliness in his voice, ‘you don’t know ’ow good, ’ow beautiful she is. I ain’t fit to breathe ’er name in my thoughts. An’ she’s so clever. I met ’er at that Toynbee ’All. There was a party of toffs there all together. You would ’ave enjoyed it, Mr. MacShaughnassy, if you could ’ave ’eard ’er; she was makin’ fun of the pictures and the people round about to ’er pa – such wit, such learnin’, such ’aughtiness. I follered them out and opened the carriage door for ’er, and she just drew ’er skirt aside and looked at me as if I was the dirt in the road. I wish I was, for then perhaps one day I’d kiss ’er feet.’

“His emotion was so genuine that I did not feel inclined to laugh at him. ‘Did you find out who she was?’ I asked.

“‘Yes,’ he answered; ‘I ’eard the old gentleman say “’Ome” to the coachman, and I ran after the carriage all the way to ’Arley Street. Trevior’s ’er name, Hedith Trevior.’

“‘Miss Trevior!’ I cried, ‘a tall, dark girl, with untidy hair and rather weak eyes?’

“‘Tall and dark,’ he replied ‘with ’air that seems tryin’ to reach ’er lips to kiss ’em, and heyes, light blue, like a Cambridge necktie. A ’undred and seventy-three was the number.’

“‘That’s right,’ I said; ‘my dear Smith, this is becoming complicated. You’ve met the lady and talked to her for half an hour – as Smythe, don’t you remember?’

“‘No,’ he said, after cogitating for a minute, ‘carn’t say I do; I never can remember much about Smythe. He allers seems to me like a bad dream.’

“‘Well, you met her,’ I said; ‘I’m positive. I introduced you to her myself, and she confided to me afterwards that she thought you a most charming man.’

“‘No – did she?’ he remarked, evidently softening in his feelings towards Smythe; ‘and did I like ’er?’

“‘Well, to tell the truth,’ I answered, ‘I don’t think you did. You looked intensely bored.’

“‘The Juggins,’ I heard him mutter to himself, and then he said aloud: ‘D’yer think I shall get a chance o’ seein’ ’er agen, when I’m – when I’m Smythe?’

“‘Of course,’ I said, ‘I’ll take you round myself. By the bye,’ I added, jumping up and looking on the mantelpiece, ‘I’ve got a card for a Cinderella at their place – something to do with a birthday. Will you be Smythe on November the twentieth?’

“‘Ye – as,’ he replied; ‘oh, yas – bound to be by then.’

“‘Very well, then,’ I said, ‘I’ll call round for you at the Albany, and we’ll go together.’

“He rose and stood smoothing his hat with his sleeve. ‘Fust time I’ve ever looked for’ard to bein’ that hanimated corpse, Smythe,’ he said slowly. ‘Blowed if I don’t try to ’urry it up – ’pon my sivey I will.’

“‘He’ll be no good to you till the twentieth,’ I reminded him. ‘And,’ I added, as I stood up to ring the bell, ‘you’re sure it’s a genuine case this time. You won’t be going back to ’Liza?’

“‘Oh, don’t talk ’bout ’Liza in the same breath with Hedith,’ he replied, ‘it sounds like sacrilege.’

“He stood hesitating with the handle of the door in his hand. At last, opening it and looking very hard at his hat, he said, ‘I’m goin’ to ’Arley Street now. I walk up and down outside the ’ouse every evening, and sometimes, when there ain’t no one lookin’, I get a chance to kiss the doorstep.’

“He disappeared, and I returned to my chair.

“On November twentieth, I called for him according to promise. I found him on the point of starting for the club: he had forgotten all about our appointment. I reminded him of it, and he with difficulty recalled it, and consented, without any enthusiasm, to accompany me. By a few artful hints to her mother (including a casual mention of his income), I manoeuvred matters so that he had Edith almost entirely to himself for the whole evening. I was proud of what I had done, and as we were walking home together I waited to receive his gratitude.

“As it seemed slow in coming, I hinted my expectations.

“‘Well,’ I said, ‘I think I managed that very cleverly for you.’

“‘Managed what very cleverly?’ said he.

“‘Why, getting you and Miss Trevior left together for such a long time in the conservatory,’ I answered, somewhat hurt; ‘I fixed that for you.’

“‘Oh, it was you, was it,’ he replied; ‘I’ve been cursing Providence.’

“I stopped dead in the middle of the pavement, and faced him. ‘Don’t you love her?’ I said.

“‘Love her!’ he repeated, in the utmost astonishment; ‘what on earth is there in her to love? She’s nothing but a bad translation of a modern French comedy, with the interest omitted.’

“This ‘tired’ me – to use an Americanism. ‘You came to me a month ago,’ I said, ‘raving over her, and talking about being the dirt under her feet and kissing her doorstep.’

“He turned very red. ‘I wish, my dear Mac,’ he said, ‘you would pay me the compliment of not mistaking me for that detestable little cad with whom I have the misfortune to be connected. You would greatly oblige me if next time he attempts to inflict upon you his vulgar drivel you would kindly kick him downstairs.’

“‘No doubt,’ he added, with a sneer, as we walked on, ‘Miss Trevior would be his ideal. She is exactly the type of woman, I should say, to charm that type of man. For myself, I do not appreciate the artistic and literary female.’

“‘Besides,’ he continued, in a deeper tone, ‘you know my feelings. I shall never care for any other woman but Elizabeth.’

“‘And she?’ I said

“‘She,’ he sighed, ‘is breaking her heart for Smith.’

“‘Why don’t you tell her you are Smith?’ I asked.

“‘I cannot,’ he replied, ‘not even to win her. Besides, she would not believe me.’

“We said good-night at the corner of Bond Street, and I did not see him again till one afternoon late in the following March, when I ran against him in Ludgate Circus. He was wearing his transition blue suit and bowler hat. I went up to him and took his arm.