t prosaic way. Her mother
consulted me professionally about Philippa's prospects. We did not at
that time come to terms. I thought I might conclude a more advantageous
arrangement if Philippa's _heart_ was touched, if she would be mine. But
she did not love me. Moreover, she was ambitious; she knew, small blame
to her, how unique she was.

'The fact is,' she would observe when I pressed my suit, 'the fact is
I look higher than a mere showman, even if he can write M.D. after his
name.' Philippa soon left the circuit 'to better herself.'

In a short time a telegram from her apprised me that she was an orphan.
I flew to where she lodged, in a quiet, respectable street, near
Ratcliff Highway. She expressed her intention of staying here for some
time.

'But alone, Philippa?'

(She was but eight-and-thirty).

'Not so much alone as you suppose,' she replied archly.

This should have warned me, but again I passionately urged my plea. I
offered most attractive inducements. A line to herself in the bills!
Everything found!

'Basil,' she observed, blushing in her usual partial manner, 'you are a
day after the fair.'

'But there are plenty of fairs,' I cried, 'all of which we attend
regularly. What can you mean? Has another----'

'He hev,' said Philippa, demurely but decidedly.

'You are engaged?' She raised her lovely hand, and was showing me a gold
wedding circlet, when the door opened, and a strikingly handsome man of
some forty summers entered.

There was something written in his face (a dark contusion, in fact,
under the left eye) which told me that he could not be a pure and
high-souled Christian gentleman.

'Basil South, M.D.' said Philippa, introducing us. 'Mr. Baby Farmer'
(obviously a name of endearment), and again a rosy blush crept round her
neck in the usual partial manner, which made one of her most peculiar
charms.

I bowed mechanically, and, amid a few dishevelled remarks on the
weather, left the house the most disappointed showman in England.

'Cur, sneak, coward, villain!' I hissed when I felt sure I was well out
of hearing. 'Farewell, farewell, Philippa!'

To drown remembrance and regret, I remained in town, striving in a
course of what moralists call 'gaiety' to forget what I had lost.

How many try the same prescription, and seem rather to like it! I often
met my fellow-patients.

One day, on the steps of the Aquarium, I saw the man whom I suspected of
not being Philippa's husband.

'Wh