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She says nothing, and he thrusts his hands deep in his ragged pockets. ‘Hallo! what’s this I’ve got?’ he says, as he feels something at the bottom of one of them, and, bringing out the box of soldiers he had bought half an hour before, he holds it up with a harsh laugh which has the ring of despair in it.

‘Do you see this?’ he says to her. ‘You’ll laugh when I tell you it’s a toy I bought just now for–guess whom–for your dear husband! Must have been pretty bad, mustn’t I? Shall I give it to you to take to him–no? Well, perhaps he has outgrown such things now, so here goes!’ and he pitches the box over the railings, and it falls with a shiver of broken glass as the pieces of painted tin rattle out upon the flag-stones.

‘And now I’ll wish you good evening,’ he says, sweeping off his battered hat with mock courtesy.

She tries to keep him back. ‘No, Wilfred, no; you must not go like that. We live here still, Lionel and I, in the same old house,’ and she indicates the house next door; ‘he will be home very soon. Will you’ (she cannot help a little shudder at the thought of such a guest)–‘will you come in and wait for him?’

‘Throw myself into his arms, eh?’ he says. ‘How delighted he would be! I’m just the sort of brother to be a credit to a highly respectable young barrister like him. You really think he’d like it? No; it’s all right, Ethel; don’t be alarmed: I was only joking. I shall never come in your way, I promise you. I’m just going to take myself off.’

‘Don’t say that,’ she says (in spite of herself she feels relieved); ‘tell me–is there nothing we can do–no help we can give you?’

‘Nothing,’ he answers fiercely; ‘I don’t want your pity. Do you think I can’t see that you wouldn’t touch me with the tongs if you could help it? It’s too late to snivel over me now, and I’m well enough as I am. You leave me alone to go to the devil my own way; it’s all I ask of you. Good-bye. It’s Christmas, isn’t it? I haven’t dreamed that at all events. Well, I wish you and Lionel as merry a Christmas as I mean to have. I can’t say more than that in the way of enjoyment.’

He turns on his heel at the last words and slouches off down the narrow lane by which he had come. Ethel Rolleston stands for a while, looking after his receding form till the fog closes round it and she can see it no more. She feels as if she had seen a ghost; and for her at least the enclosure before the deserted house next door will be haunted evermore–haunted by a forlorn and homeless figure sobbing there by the railings.

As for the man, he goes on his way until he finds a door which–alas!–is not closed against him.