as one of her
favourites; cared little or nothing for the louder interests of the
time. Impossible to detect the colour of her thoughts with regard to
Cecil; she spoke of him gravely and gently, but without the least
perceptible emotion. Harvey noticed her when Morphew was saying
goodbye; her smile was sweet, and perhaps tender, but even then she
seemed to be debating with herself some point of conscience. Perhaps
Cecil had pressed her hand rather too fervently?

The friends walked away in silence along the dim-lighted street,
between monotonous rows of high sombre houses, each with its pillared
portico which looked like the entrance to a tomb. Glancing about him
with a sense of depression, Harvey wondered that any mortal could fix
his pride on the fact of residence in such a hard, cold, ugly
wilderness.

'Has she altered much since you first knew her?' he asked at length.

'A good deal,' answered the other. 'Yes, a good deal. She used to laugh
sometimes; now she never does. She was always quiet--always looked at
things seriously--but it was different. You think her gloomy?'

'No, no; not gloomy. It's all natural enough. Her life wants a little
sunlight, that's all.'

For the rest, he could speak with sincere admiration, and Cecil heard
him delightedly.

The choice of a dwelling was a most difficult matter. As it must be
quite a small house, the remoter suburbs could alone supply what was
wanted; Morphew spent every Saturday and Sunday in wearisome
exploration. Mrs. Winter, though in theory she accepted the necessity
of cheapness, shrank from every practical suggestion declaring it
impossible to live in such places as Cecil requested her to look at.
She had an ideal of the 'nice thinks nothing of. And herself the cause
of it, if only I had dared to tell her so!'

'The old story, I suppose,' said Harvey. 'Some other woman?'

'I was very near telling you, that day you came to my beastly garret in
Chelsea; do you remember? It was the worst time with me then--except
when you found me in Brussels. I'd been gambling again; you knew that.
I wanted money for something I felt ashamed to speak of.--You know the
awful misery I used to suffer about Henrietta. I was often enough
nearly mad with--what is one to call it? Why isn't there a decent name
for the agony men go through at that age? I simply couldn't live alone
any longer--I couldn't; and only a fool and a hypocrite would pretend
to blame me. A man, that is; women