nd at his companion, and from the
expression of unease on his face, it was evident that some contest was
going on in his mind. Twice he stood near his old camera, and turned
round to Bernardine intending to make some remark. Then he chanced his
mind, and walked abruptly to the other end of the room as though to seek
advice from his chemical bottles. Bernardine meanwhile had risen from
her chair, and was looking out of the window.

"You have a lovely view," she said. "It must be nice to look at that
when you are tired of dissecting cheese-mites. All the same, I think
the white scenery gives one a great sense of sadness and loneliness."

"Why do you speak always of loneliness?" he asked.

"I have been thinking a good deal about it," she said. "When I was
strong and vigorous, the idea of loneliness never entered my mind. Now I
see how lonely most people are. If I believed in God as a Personal God,
I should be inclined to think that loneliness were part of his scheme:
so that the soul of man might turn to him and him alone."

The Disagreeable Man was standing by his camera again: his decision was
made.

"Don't think about those questions," he said kindly. "Don't worry and
fret too much about the philosophy of life. Leave philosophy alone, and
take to photography instead. Here, I will lend you my old camera."

"Do you mean that?" she asked, glancing at him in astonishment.

"Of course I mean it," he said.

He looked remarkably pleased with himself, and Bernardine could not
help smiling.

He looked just as a child looks when he has given up a toy to another
child, and is conscious that he has behaved himself rather well.

"I am very much obliged to you," she said frankly. "I have had a great
wish to learn photography."

"I might have lent my camera to you before, mightn't I?" he said
thoughtfully.

"No," she answered. "There was not any reason."

"No," he said, with a kind of relief, "there was not any reason. That
is quite true!"

"When will you give me my first lesson?" she asked. "Perhaps, though,
you would like to wait a few days, in case you change your mind."

"It takes me some time to make up my mind," he replied, "but I do not
change it. So I will give you your first lesson to-morrow. Only you
must not be impatient. You must consent to be taught; you cannot
possibly know everything!"

They fixed a time for the morrow, and Bernardine went off with the
camera; and meeting Marie on the staircase, conf