seventh." And he opened the door for him.

"A madman nearly threw me down as I was coming up," said the person
addressed, in some agitation.

"Ten thousand pardons for his rudeness, my dear sir--ten thousand
pardons, but allow me;" and he bowed him out of the room. He then turned
round to the other stranger, who had stood by in silence: "And you too,
sir ... is it possible!" His countenance changed to extreme surprise; it
was Mr. Malcolm. Charles's thoughts flowed in a new current, and his
tormentors were suddenly forgotten.

The history of Mr. Malcolm's calling was simple. He had always been a
collector of old books, and had often taken advantage of the stores of
Charles's landlord in adding to his library. Passing through London to
the Eastern Counties Rail, he happened to call in; and, as his friend
the bookseller was not behind his own reading-room in the diffusion of
gossip, he learned that Mr. Reding, who was on the point of seceding
from the Establishment, was at that moment above stairs. He waited with
impatience through Dr. Kitchens' visit, and even then found himself, to
his no small annoyance, in danger of being outstripped by the good
Swedenborgian.

"How d'ye do, Charles?" he said, at length, with not a little stiffness
in his manner, while Charles had no less awkwardness in receiving him;
"you have been holding a levee this morning; I thought I should never
get to see you. Sit you down; let us both sit down, and let me at last
have a word or two with you."

In spite of the diversified trial Charles had sustained from strangers
that morning, there was no one perhaps whom he would have less desired
to see than Mr. Malcolm. He could not help associating him with his
father, yet he felt no opening of heart towards him, nor respect for his
judgment. His feeling was a mixture of prescriptive fear and
friendliness, attachment from old associations, and desire of standing
well with him, but neither confidence nor real love. He coloured up and
felt guilty, yet without a clear understanding why.

"Well, Charles Reding," he said, "I think we know each other well enough
for you to have given me a hint of what was going on as regards you."

Charles said he had written to him only the evening before.

"Ah, when there was not time to answer your letter," said Mr. Malcolm.

Charles said he wished to spare so kind a friend ... he bungled, and
could not finish his sentence.

"A friend, who, of course, could give