a living statue, his
top-hat extended, his bunch of roses dangling--the picture of idiotic
futility. Genuine emotion, however mean its origin, always has its grand
moments. Tabs forgot the silly beginnings of this upset and the endless
troubles it had caused. All he saw was a typical ragamuffin of humanity
in the grip of the policeman, Nemesis. Adair had been caught trying to
do what thousands of other ragamuffins achieved daily with success. He
had been arrested red-handed in the act of stealing forbidden happiness.
It was his first offense. He was inexpert and had bungled. He had
bungled because, while assuming the role of roguery, he had remained at
heart an honest man. Now that he was caught, he took the exposure of his
dishonesty too seriously.

Tabs had almost forgotten that he had been the last to speak, when Adair
repeated his exact words, "Except Phyllis!" And then, "Poor kid! She,
too, is unhappy."

Through the marshy obscurities of his humiliation his conscience was
building a path. With his two hands he crushed his topper back onto his
head. The act had the vehemence of decision. In the doing of it he
dropped the roses to the floor. There they lay forgotten--so forgotten
that he placed his foot on them without noticing.

"Home! Best be going home," he muttered.

Without further explanation, he drew back the latch and let himself out
into the sunlit Court. Delaying long enough to pick up his hat and cane,
Tabs followed.

Adair gave no sign of recognition as he caught up with him. Failing to
hail a taxi, they boarded a bus. Tabs paid the fares. Adair sat like
Napoleon after Waterloo, taking no notice of anything. It was the
intensity of his thoughts that kept him silent--not moroseness.

They had reached Clapham Common and had come to his garden-gate, before
he acknowledged Tabs' presence.

"I was a fool. I deserved it," he said sadly. "It's ended in exactly the
way that any sane man would have expected."

Kicking the gate open, he passed up the path. From the Common Tabs
watched him, till he was safely within the house and the door had shut.

As he turned away, he scarcely knew whether to laugh or feel vexed. The
misfortunes of others can always be traced to folly; it is only our own
misfortunes that are never deserved and never anything less than august.
If Adair's love-affair had appeared ridiculous in his eyes, probably his
own would afford materials for jest to some one else.

He couldn't forg