no enjoyment, and, full of his own troubles, was in no mood to discuss
anything else. He gave a short biography of Mrs. Silk which would have
furnished abundant material for half-a-dozen libel actions, and alluding
to the demise of the late Mr. Silk, spoke of it as though it were the
supreme act of artfulness in a somewhat adventurous career.

Hardy walked home with a mind more at ease than it had been at any time
since his overtures to Mr. Swann. The only scruple that had troubled him
was now removed, and in place of it he felt that he was acting the part
of a guardian angel to Mr. Edward Silk.

CHAPTER XXII

Mr. Nathan Smith, usually one of the most matter-of-fact men in the
world, came out of Mr. Swann's house in a semi-dazed condition, and for
some time after the front door had closed behind him stood gaping on the
narrow pavement.

He looked up and down the quiet little street and shook his head sadly.
It was a street of staid and substantial old houses; houses which had
mellowed and blackened with age, but whose quaint windows and
chance-opened doors afforded glimpses of comfort attesting to the
prosperity of those within. In the usual way Mr. Nathan Smith was of too
philosophical a temperament to experience the pangs of envy, but to-day
these things affected him, and he experienced a strange feeling of
discontent with his lot in life.

"Some people 'ave all the luck," he muttered, and walked slowly down the
road.

[Illustration: "'Some people 'ave all the luck,' he muttered."]

He continued his reflections as he walked through the somewhat squalid
streets of his own quarter. The afternoon was wet and the houses looked
dingier than usual; dirty, inconvenient little places most of them, with
a few cheap gimcracks making a brave show as near the window as possible.
Mr. Smith observed them with newly opened eyes, and, for perhaps the
first time in his life, thought of the draw-backs and struggles of the
poor.

In his own untidy little den at the back of the house he sat for some
time deep in thought over the events of the afternoon. He had been
permitted a peep at wealth; at wealth, too, which was changing hands, but
was not coming his way. He lit his pipe and, producing a bottle of rum
from a cupboard, helped himself liberally. The potent fluid softened him
somewhat, and a half-formed intention to keep the news from Mr. Kybird
melted away beneath its benign influence.

"After all, we've bee