he fender, and the dialogue came to an abrupt
termination. "She" who gave a little jump was Miss Lisle, of course. But
there would be some more--What? The young man revolved the matter
gloomily in his mind as he paced to and fro within the narrow limits of
his room. A natural impulse had caused him to interrupt Lydia's
triumphant speech, which he knew was not intended for his ears, but her
laugh rang in the air and mocked him. What was the torture that she had
devised and whose effects she so curiously analyzed? There would be
more--What?

He thought of it that night, he thought of it the next morning, and
still he could not solve the mystery. But as he came from the office in
the middle of the day he passed his bootmaker's, and the worthy man, who
was holding the door open for a customer to go out, stopped him with an
apology. Percival's heart beat fast: never before had he stood face to
face with a tradesman and felt that he could not pay him what he owed.
His bill had not yet been sent in, and the man had never shown any
inclination to hurry him, but he was evidently going to ask for his
money now. Percival controlled his face with an effort, prepared for the
humiliating confession of his poverty, and found that Mr. Robinson--with
profuse excuses for the trouble he was giving--was begging to be told
Mr. Lisle's address.

"Mr. Lisle's address?" Thorne repeated the words, but as he did so the
matter suddenly became clear to him, and he went on easily: "Oh, I ought
to have told you that Mr. Lisle's account was to be sent to me. If you
have it there, I'll take it."

Mr. Robinson fetched it with more apologies. He was impressed by the
lofty carelessness with which the young man thrust the paper into his
pocket, and as Thorne went down the street the little bootmaker looked
after him with considerable admiration: "Any one can see he's quite the
gentleman, and so was the other. This one'll make his way too, see if he
doesn't!" Mr. Robinson imparted these opinions to Mrs. Robinson over
their dinner, and was informed in return that he wasn't a prophet, so he
needn't think it, and the young men who gave themselves airs and wore
smart clothes weren't the ones to get on in the world; and Mrs. Robinson
had no patience with such nonsense.

Meanwhile, Percival had gone home with his riddle answered. More--What?
More unsuspected debts, more bills of Bertie's to be sent in to the
poor girl who had been so happy in the thought tha