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‘Of course I am.

‘When did you see him last?’

‘See him?’ Shergold’s eyes wandered vaguely. ‘Oh, to talk with him, about a month ago.’

‘Did you part friendly?’

‘On excellent terms. And last night I went to ask after him. Unfortunately he didn’t know any one, but the nurse said he had been mentioning my name, and in a kind way.’

‘Capital! Hadn’t you better walk in that direction this afternoon?’

‘Yes, perhaps I had, and yet, you know, I hate to have it supposed that I am hovering about him.’

‘All the same, go.’

Shergold pointed to a chair. ‘Sit down a bit. I have been having a talk with Dr. Salmon. He discourages me a good deal. You know it’s far from certain that I shall go on with medicine.’

‘Far from certain!’ the other assented, smiling. ‘By the bye, I hear that you have been in the world of late. You were at Lady Teasdale’s not long ago.’

‘Well–yes–why not?’

Perhaps it was partly his vexation at the book incident,–Shergold seemed unable to fix his thoughts on anything; he shuffled in his seat and kept glancing nervously towards the door.

‘I was delighted to hear it,’ said his friend. ‘That’s a symptom of health. Go everywhere; see everybody–that’s worth seeing. They got you to talk, I believe?’

‘Who has been telling you? I’m afraid I talked a lot of rubbish; I had shivers of shame all through a sleepless night after it. But some one brought up Whistler, and etching, and so on, and I had a few ideas of which I wanted to relieve my mind. And, after all, there’s a pleasure in talking to intelligent people. Henry Wilt was there with his daughters. Clever girls, by Jove! And Mrs. Peter Rayne–do you know her?’

‘Know of her, that’s all.’

‘A splendid woman–brains, brains! Upon my soul, I know no such delight as listening to a really intellectual woman, when she’s also beautiful. I shake with delight–and what women one does meet, nowadays! Of course the world never saw their like. I have my idea of Aspasia–but there are lots of grander women in London to-day. One ought to live among the rich. What a wretched mistake, when one can help it, to herd with narrow foreheads, however laudable your motive! Since I got back among the better people my life has been trebled–oh, centupled–in value!’

‘My boy,’ remarked Munden quietly, ‘didn’t I say something to this effect on a certain day nine years ago?’

‘Don’t talk of it,’ the other replied, waving his hand in agitation. ‘We’ll never look back at that.’

‘Your room is stuffy,’ said Munden, rising. ‘Let us go and have lunch somewhere.’

‘Yes, we will! Just a moment to wash my hands–I’ve been in the dissecting-room.’

The friends went downstairs. At the foot they passed the landlady’s daughter: she drew back, but, as Shergold allowed his companion to pass into the street, her voice made itself heard behind him.

‘Shall you want tea, Mr. Shergold?’

Munden turned sharply and looked at the girl. Shergold did not look at her, but he delayed for a moment and appeared to balance the question. Then, in a friendly voice, he said–

‘No, thank you. I may not be back till late in the evening.’ And he went on hurriedly.

‘Cheeky little beggar that,’ Munden observed, with a glance at his friend.

‘Oh, not a bad girl in her way. They’ve made me very comfortable. All the same, I shan’t grieve when the day of departure comes.’

It was not cheerful, the life-story of Henry Shergold. At two-and-twenty he found himself launched upon the world, with a university education incomplete and about forty pounds in his pocket. A little management, a little less of boyish pride, and he might have found the means to go forward to his degree, with pleasant hopes in the background; but Henry was a Radical, a scorner of privilege, a believer in human perfectibility. He got a place in an office, and he began to write poetry–some of which was published and duly left unpaid for. A year later there came one fateful day when he announced to his friend Harvey Munden that he was going to be married. His chosen bride was the daughter of a journeyman tailor–a tall, pale, unhealthy girl of eighteen, whose acquaintance he had made at a tobacconist’s shop, where she served. He was going to marry her on principle–principle informed with callow passion, the passion of a youth who has lived demurely, more among books than men. Harvey Munden flew into a rage, and called upon the gods in protest. But Shergold was not to be shaken. The girl, he declared, had fallen in love with him during conversations across the counter; her happiness was in his hands, and he would not betray it. She had excellent dispositions; he would educate her. The friends quarrelled about it, and Shergold led home his bride.