ommon in London, and that haunt some streets of the city like accusing
presences. One guessed him as the third generation, grandson to the
shepherd or ploughboy whom civilisation had sucked into the town; as one
of the thousands who have lost the life of the body and failed to reach
the life of the spirit. Hints of robustness survived in him, more than a
hint of primitive good looks, and Margaret, noting the spine that might
have been straight, and the chest that might have broadened, wondered
whether it paid to give up the glory of the animal for a tail coat and a
couple of ideas. Culture had worked in her own case, but during the last
few weeks she had doubted whether it humanised the majority, so wide
and so widening is the gulf that stretches between the natural and the
philosophic man, so many the good chaps who are wrecked in trying to
cross it. She knew this type very well--the vague aspirations, the
mental dishonesty, the familiarity with the outsides of books. She knew
the very tones in which he would address her. She was only unprepared
for an example of her own visiting-card.

"You wouldn't remember giving me this, Miss Schlegel?" said he, uneasily
familiar.

"No; I can't say I do."

"Well, that was how it happened, you see."

"Where did we meet, Mr. Bast? For the minute I don't remember."

"It was a concert at the Queen's Hall. I think you will recollect," he
added pretentiously, "when I tell you that it included a performance of
the Fifth Symphony of Beethoven."

"We hear the Fifth practically every time it's done, so I'm not sure--do
you remember, Helen?"

"Was it the time the sandy cat walked round the balustrade?"

He thought not.

"Then I don't remember. That's the only Beethoven I ever remember
specially."

"And you, if I may say so, took away my umbrella, inadvertently of
course."

"Likely enough," Helen laughed, "for I steal umbrellas even oftener than
I hear Beethoven. Did you get it back?"

"Yes, thank you, Miss Schlegel."

"The mistake arose out of my card, did it?" interposed Margaret.

"Yes, the mistake arose--it was a mistake."

"The lady who called here yesterday thought that you were calling too,
and that she could find you?" she continued, pushing him forward, for,
though he had promised an explanation, he seemed unable to give one.

"That's so, calling too--a mistake."

"Then why--?" began Helen, but Margaret laid a hand on her arm.

"I said to my wife," he continued