gment me ad the en' of
that month, an' we 'ave to-day the fifteenth Mawch. Do you smoke, Mistoo
Itchlin?" He extended a package of cigarettes. Richling accepted one. "I
smoke lawgely in that weatheh," striking a match on his thigh. "I feel
ve'y sultwy to-day. Well,"--he seized the visitor's hand,--"_au' evoi'_,
Mistoo Itchlin." And Narcisse returned to his desk happy in the
conviction that Richling had gone away dazzled.

CHAPTER X.

GENTLES AND COMMONS.

Dr. Sevier sat in the great easy-chair under the drop-light of his
library table trying to read a book. But his thought was not on the
page. He expired a long breath of annoyance, and lifted his glance
backward from the bottom of the page to its top.

Why must his mind keep going back to that little cottage in St. Mary
street? What good reason was there? Would they thank him for his
solicitude? Indeed! He almost smiled his contempt of the supposition.
Why, when on one or two occasions he had betrayed a least little bit of
kindly interest,--what? Up had gone their youthful vivacity like an
umbrella. Oh, yes!--like all young folks--_their_ affairs were intensely
private. Once or twice he had shaken his head at the scantiness of all
their provisions for life. Well? They simply and unconsciously stole a
hold upon one another's hand or arm, as much as to say, "To love is
enough." When, gentlemen of the jury, it isn't enough!

"Pshaw!" The word escaped him audibly. He drew partly up from his half
recline, and turned back a leaf of the book to try once more to make out
the sense of it.

But there was Mary, and there was her husband. Especially Mary. Her
image came distinctly between his eyes and the page. There she was, just
as on his last visit,--a superfluous one--no charge,--sitting and plying
her needle, unaware of his approach, gently moving her rocking-chair,
and softly singing, "Flow on, thou shining river,"--the song his own
wife used to sing. "O child, child! do you think it's always going to be
'shining'?" They shouldn't be so contented. Was pride under that cloak?
Oh, no, no! But even if the content was genuine, it wasn't good. Why,
they oughtn't to be _able_ to be happy so completely out of their true
sphere. It showed insensibility. But, there again,--Richling wasn't
insensible, much less Mary.

The Doctor let his book sink, face downward, upon his knee.

"They're too big to be playing in the sand." He took up the book again.
"'Tisn't my busines