at the rain which
swept the uninspiring little street. Judith lives in Tottenham Mansions,
in the purlieus of the Tottenham Court Road. The ground floor of the
building is a public-house, and on summer evenings one can sit by the
open windows, and breathe in the health-giving fumes of beer and whisky,
and listen to the sweet, tuneless strains of itinerant musicians. When
my new fortunes enabled me to give the dear woman just the little help
that allowed her to move into a more commodious flat, she had the many
mansions of London to choose from. Why she insisted on this abominable
locality I could never understand. It isn't as if the flat were
particularly cheap; indeed the fact of its being situated over a
public-house seems to enhance the rent. She said she liked the shape of
the knocker and the pattern of the bathroom taps. I dimly perceive that
it must have had something to do with the temperament.

"It always seems to rain when we propose an outing together. This is the
fourth time since Easter," I remarked.

We had planned a sedate country jaunt, but as the day was pouring wet we
remained at home.

"Perhaps this is the way the _bon Dieu_ has of expressing his
disapproval of us," said Judith.

"Why should he disapprove?" I asked.

A shrug of her shoulders ended in a shiver.

"I am chilled through."

"My dear girl," I cried, "why on earth haven't you lit the fire?"

"The last time I lit it you said the room was stuffy."

"But then it was beautiful blazing sunshine, you illogical woman," I
exclaimed, searching my pockets for a match-box.

I struck a match. To apply it to the fire I had to kneel by her chair.
She stretched out her hand--she has delicate white hands with slender
fingers--and lightly touched my head.

"How long have we known each other?" she asked.

"About eight years."

"And how long shall we go on?"

"As long as you like," said I, intent on the fire.

Judith withdrew her hand. I knelt on the hearthrug until the merry blaze
and crackle of the wood assured me of successful effort.

"These are capital grates," I said, cheerfully, drawing a comfortable
arm-chair to the front of the fire.

"Excellent," she replied, in a tone devoid of interest.

There was a long silence. To me this is one of the great charms of human
intercourse. Is there not a legend that Tennyson and Carlyle spent the
most enjoyable evenings of their lives enveloped in impenetrable silence
and tobacco-smoke, one on