is one to whom I shall nevermore be permitted to justify by word of
mouth--even if I found myself able to attempt it. And as she could
not possibly think worse of me than she does at present, I write this,
knowing it can do me no harm, and faintly hoping that it may come to her
notice and suggest a doubt whether I am quite so unscrupulous a villain,
so consummate a hypocrite, as I have been forced to appear in her eyes.

The bare chance of such a result makes me perfectly indifferent to all
else; I cheerfully expose to the derision of the whole reading world
the story of my weakness and my shame, since by doing so I may possibly
rehabilitate myself somewhat in the good opinion of one person.

Having said so much, I will begin my confession without further delay.

My name is Algernon Weatherhead, and I may add that I am in one of the
government departments, that I am an only son, and live at home with my
mother.

We had had a house at Hammersmith until just before the period covered
by this history, when, our lease expiring, my mother decided that my
health required country air at the close of the day, and so we took
a "desirable villa residence" on one of the many new building estates
which have lately sprung up in such profusion in the home counties.

We have called it "Wistaria Villa." It is a pretty little place,
the last of a row of detached villas, each with its tiny rustic
carriage-gate and gravel sweep in front, and lawn enough for a
tennis-court behind, which lines the road leading over the hill to the
railway-station.

I could certainly have wished that our landlord, shortly after giving us
the agreement, could have found some other place to hang himself in than
one of our attics, for the consequence was that a housemaid left us in
violent hysterics about every two months, having learned the tragedy
from the tradespeople, and naturally "seen a somethink" immediately
afterward.

Still it is a pleasant house, and I can now almost forgive the landlord
for what I shall always consider an act of gross selfishness on his
part.

In the country, even so near town, a next-door neighbor is something
more than a mere numeral; he is a possible acquaintance, who will at
least consider a new-comer as worth the experiment of a call. I soon
knew that "Shuturgarden," the next house to our own, was occupied by a
Colonel Currie, a retired Indian officer; and often, as across the low
boundary wall I caught a glimpse of a