his poetry, and this time read
on until he had finished. Then he was silent, staring at the table
with his legs straight out in front of him, and his hands in his
pockets.

"What rot your own poetry can sound!" he finally observed with a frown.

"Verse certainly needs an audience, and there's a turn, a lilt that
reminds me of Carleton occasionally--that won't do. Must go at it
again. Must go at it again. Better have a smoke."

He found and lit his pipe, read over the stanzas, this time in his
head, and the room grew steadily colder, until he could hardly stand
it. He rang the bell.

"Look here! Tell Mr. Prefontaine his guests are freezing in this
house. Get him to fire up, there's a good fellow--and--look here? How
soon will dinner be ready?"

"Not for some time, sir. Perhaps, if you're cold, a hot Scotch----"

But Crabbe was again buried in his work. At one he dined, very much
admired by Mme. Prefontaine and her three daughters; he had his
innocent tipple and then went back to his room. By three o'clock it
was growing dark and he rose to pull down the blind, when a step
outside in the hall arrested him. The step seemed familiar, yet
incongruous and uncongenial; it was followed by a knock, and, going
forward, Crabbe opened the door to Ringfield.

Astonishment showed in the Englishman's face, but he spoke amiably
enough and invited the young man inside. Ringfield's countenance wore
its perennial grave aspect, but it could also be seen that at that
moment he was suffering from the cold. He wore no muffler, and his
hands were encased in mere woollen gloves; he had also the appearance
of being a martyr to influenza, and Crabbe regarded him with his usual
contemptuous familiarity.

"What's brought you to town this infernally cold day?" he said.
"You're not going to be married, you know."

The pleasantry did not apparently disconcert the other, but he looked
carefully around as if searching for something before he answered.

"To be candid, I followed you here to have a talk with you."

"The deuce you did--white choker and all! You have a cheek, haven't
you? Then you must be pretty flush, after all, even if you have not
any expectations, like me, Ringfield. You've never congratulated me,
but let that pass. As you are here, what do you want to talk about?"

The two stood facing each other, with the paper-strewn table between
them.

"I should almost think you could guess," murmured Ringfield wit