well. The Captain watched, expecting to see this beggar
address an appeal to Mrs. Errington or Horace. But apparently the man
was nervous or half-hearted, for he followed them slowly, without
catching them up, until the trio vanished from view on the bank of the
Serpentine.

When this disappearance took place the Captain was conscious of an
absurd feeling of disappointment. He could not understand why he felt
any anxiety to see Mrs. Errington refuse a beggar alms. Yet he would
gladly have followed, like a spy, to behold a commonplace and dingy
event. Despite the apparent reluctance of the beggar to ply his trade,
Hindford felt convinced that presently the man would approach Mrs.
Errington and be promptly sent about his business. Her negative would,
no doubt, be eager enough even upon this exquisite and charitable
morning. Wishing devoutly that, being a gentleman, he had not to conform
to an unwritten code of manners, Hindford walked away. And, as he
walked, he saw continually the back of the beggar with that black coat
of the two hills and the valley between the shoulder-blades.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Errington and Horace, quite unaware that they were being
followed, pursued their way. There were a few boats out on the water,
occupied by inexpert oarsmen whose frantic efforts to seem natural and
serene in this to them new and complicated art drew the undivided
attention of the boy, a celebrated "wet Bob." Mrs. Errington was
thinking about her latest investments and watching the golden walls grow
higher about her. Mother and son were engrossed, and did not hear a low
voice say, "I beg your pardon!" until it had uttered the words more than
once. Then Horace looked round. He saw a tall and very pale young man,
neatly though poorly dressed in dark trousers and a thin loose black
coat that might have been made of alpaca, and fitted badly. This man's
face was gaunt and meagre, the features were pointed, the mouth was
piteous. His eyes blazed with some terrible emotion, it seemed, and when
Horace looked round a sudden patch of scarlet burned on his white and
bony cheeks. Horace's attention was pinned by his appearance, which was
at the same time dull and piercing, as the human aspect becomes in the
tremendous moment of an existence. This man's soul seemed silently
screaming out in his glance, his posture, his chalk-white cheeks starred
with scarlet spots, his long-fingered hands drooping down in the shadow
of his ill-fitting coat,