t frame
of mind which was with him almost chronic, had delayed a moment by the
door, peering round in the dimly-lighted street in search of those
mysterious incidents and persons with which the streets of London teem
in every quarter and every hour. Villiers prided himself as a
practised explorer of such obscure mazes and byways of London life, and
in this unprofitable pursuit he displayed an assiduity which was worthy
of more serious employment. Thus he stood by the lamp-post surveying
the passers-by with undisguised curiosity, and with that gravity known
only to the systematic diner, had just enunciated in his mind the
formula: "London has been called the city of encounters; it is more
than that, it is the city of Resurrections," when these reflections
were suddenly interrupted by a piteous whine at his elbow, and a
deplorable appeal for alms. He looked around in some irritation, and
with a sudden shock found himself confronted with the embodied proof of
his somewhat stilted fancies. There, close beside him, his face
altered and disfigured by poverty and disgrace, his body barely covered
by greasy ill-fitting rags, stood his old friend Charles Herbert, who
had matriculated on the same day as himself, with whom he had been
merry and wise for twelve revolving terms. Different occupations and
varying interests had interrupted the friendship, and it was six years
since Villiers had seen Herbert; and now he looked upon this wreck of a
man with grief and dismay, mingled with a certain inquisitiveness as to
what dreary chain of circumstances had dragged him down to such a
doleful pass. Villiers felt together with compassion all the relish of
the amateur in mysteries, and congratulated himself on his leisurely
speculations outside the restaurant.

They walked on in silence for some time, and more than one passer-by
stared in astonishment at the unaccustomed spectacle of a well-dressed
man with an unmistakable beggar hanging on to his arm, and, observing
this, Villiers led the way to an obscure street in Soho. Here he
repeated his question.

"How on earth has it happened, Herbert? I always understood you would
succeed to an excellent position in Dorsetshire. Did your father
disinherit you? Surely not?"

"No, Villiers; I came into all the property at my poor father's death;
he died a year after I left Oxford. He was a very good father to me,
and I mourned his death sincerely enough. But you know what young men
a