the middle class. A pleasant, hospitable woman, with a
harmless craze for the small lions of literary society; a
rather dull man, doing his duty in that state of life in which
a merciful Providence had placed him; two nice-looking,
healthy children. Nothing could be more ordinary. I do not
know that there was anything about them to excite the
attention of the curious.

When I reflect on all that happened later, I ask myself if I
was thick-witted not to see that there was in Charles
Strickland at least something out of the common. Perhaps.
I think that I have gathered in the years that intervene between
then and now a fair knowledge of mankind, but even if when I first
met the Stricklands I had the experience which I have now,
I do not believe that I should have judged them
differently. But because I have learnt that man is incalculable,
I should not at this time of day be so surprised by the news
that reached me when in the early autumn I returned to London.

I had not been back twenty-four hours before I ran across Rose
Waterford in Jermyn Street.

"You look very gay and sprightly," I said. "What's the matter
with you?"

She smiled, and her eyes shone with a malice I knew already.
It meant that she had heard some scandal about one of her
friends, and the instinct of the literary woman was all alert.

"You did meet Charles Strickland, didn't you?"

Not only her face, but her whole body, gave a sense of alacrity.
I nodded. I wondered if the poor devil had been
hammered on the Stock Exchange or run over by an omnibus.

"Isn't it dreadful? He's run away from his wife."

Miss Waterford certainly felt that she could not do her
subject justice on the curb of Jermyn Street, and so,
like an artist, flung the bare fact at me and declared that
she knew no details. I could not do her the injustice of supposing
that so trifling a circumstance would have prevented her from
giving them, but she was obstinate.

"I tell you I know nothing," she said, in reply to my agitated
questions, and then, with an airy shrug of the shoulders:
"I believe that a young person in a city tea-shop has left
her situation."

She flashed a smile at me, and, protesting an engagement with
her dentist, jauntily walked on. I was more interested than
distressed. In those days my experience of life at first hand
was small, and it excited me to come upon an incident among
people I knew of the same sort as I had read in books.
I confess