ted him home again. His kindness to Pym, the delicacy
with which he pretended not to see that poor old Pym was degraded and
done for--they would have been pretty even in a woman, and we treat
Tommy unfairly in passing them by with a bow.

Pym had the manuscript to read, and you may be as sure he kept sober
that night as that Tommy lay awake. For when literature had to be
judged, who could be so grim a critic as this usually lenient toper?
He could forgive much, could Pym. You had run away without paying your
rent, was it? Well, well, come in and have a drink. Broken your wife's
heart, have you? Poor chap, but you will soon get over it. But if it
was a split infinitive, "Go to the devil, sir."

"Into a cocked hat," was the verdict of Pym, meaning thereby that thus
did Tommy's second work beat his first. Tommy broke down and wept.

Presently Pym waxed sentimental and confided to Tommy that he, too,
had once loved in vain. The sad case of those who love in vain, you
remember, is the subject of the book. The saddest of autobiographies,
it has been called.

An odd thing, this, I think. Tearing home (for the more he was
engrossed in mind the quicker he walked), Tommy was not revelling in
Pym's praise; he was neither blanching nor smiling at the thought that
he of all people had written as one who was unloved; he was not
wondering what Grizel would say to it; he had even forgotten to sigh
over his own coming dissolution (indeed, about this time the
flower-pot began to fade from his memory). What made him cut his way
so excitedly through the streets was this: Pym had questioned his use
of the word "untimely" in chapter eight. And Tommy had always been
uneasy about that word.

He glared at every person he passed, and ran into perambulators. He
rushed past his chambers like one who no longer had a home. He was in
the park now, and did not even notice that the Row was empty, that
mighty round a deserted circus; management, riders, clowns, all the
performers gone on their provincial tour, or nearly all, for a lady on
horseback sees him, remembers to some extent who he is, and gives
chase. It is our dear Mrs. Jerry.

"You wretch," she said, "to compel me to pursue you! Nothing could
have induced me to do anything so unwomanly except that you are the
only man in town."

She shook her whip so prettily at him that it was as seductive as a
smile. It was also a way of gaining time while she tried to remember
what it was he was f