her, would create a most
unhealthy interest in the mind of any sea-side landlady. No, whatever
else he might do he could not lurk.

The most terrible things in dramatic situations are the little things
that speak to one for once in their lives. The pattern of the carpet
that tells you that there is no doubt of the fact that your wife has run
away with all your money, and left you with seven children to look
after, the form of the chair that tells you that Justice with a noose in
her hand is waiting on the front door step. Jones, just now, was under
the obsession of _the_ picture of the room, whose place was above the
mantelpiece.

It was an oleograph of a gentleman in uniform, probably the Prince
Consort, correct, sane, urbane--a terrible comparison for a man in an
insane situation, for insanity is not confined to the brain of man or
its productions--though heaven knows she has a fine field of movement in
both.

A thundering rat-tat-tat at the hall door brought Jones to his feet. He
heard the door answered, a voice outside saying "N'k you" and the door
shut. It was some parcel left in. Then he heard Mrs. Henshaw descending
the kitchen stairs and all was quiet. He turned to the bookcase, opened
it, inspected the contents, and chose "Moths."

CHAPTER XXV

MOTHS

In ill-health or convalescence, or worry or tribulation, the ordinary
mind does not turn to Milton or Shakespeare, or even to the sermons of
Charles Haddon Spurgeon. There are few classics that will stand the test
of a cold in the head, or a fit of depression, or a worrying husband, or
a minor tragedy. Here the writer of "light fiction" stands firm.

Jones had never been a great reader, he had read a cheap novel or two,
but his browsings in the literary fields had been mainly confined to the
uplands where the grass is improving.

Colour, poetry, and construction in fiction were unknown to him, and
now--he suddenly found himself on the beach at Trouville.

On the beach at Trouville with Lady Dolly skipping before him in the
sea.

He had reached the forced engagement of the beautiful heroine to the
wicked Russian Prince, when the door opened and the supper tray entered,
followed by Mrs. Henshaw. Left to honour and her own initiative she had
produced a huge lobster, followed by cheese, and three little dull
looking jam tarts on a willow pattern plate.

When Jones had ruined the lobster and devoured the tarts he went on with
the book. The lovely