life. I wish I could say as much for
my own."

"I want to forget my situation. I want to spend three months without
thinking of the past or the future, grasping whatever the present offers
me. Yesterday I thought I was in a fair way to sail with the tide. But
this morning comes this memento!" And he held up his letter again.

"What is it?"

"A letter from Smyrna."

"I see you have not yet broken the seal."

"No; nor do I mean to, for the present. It contains bad news."

"What do you call bad news?"

"News that I am expected in Smyrna in three weeks. News that Mr. Vernor
disapproves of my roving about the world. News that his daughter is
standing expectant at the altar."

"Is not this pure conjecture?"

"Conjecture, possibly, but safe conjecture. As soon as I looked at the
letter something smote me at the heart. Look at the device on the seal,
and I am sure you will find it's _Tarry not_!" And he flung the letter
on the grass.

"Upon my word, you had better open it," I said.

"If I were to open it and read my summons, do you know what I should do?
I should march home and ask the Oberkellner how one gets to Smyrna, pack
my trunk, take my ticket, and not stop till I arrived. I know I should;
it would be the fascination of habit. The only way, therefore, to wander
to my rope's end is to leave the letter unread."

"In your place," I said, "curiosity would make me open it."

He shook his head. "I have no curiosity! For a long time now the idea
of my marriage has ceased to be a novelty, and I have contemplated it
mentally in every possible light. I fear nothing from that side, but I
do fear something from conscience. I want my hands tied. Will you do me
a favour? Pick up the letter, put it into your pocket, and keep it till
I ask you for it. When I do, you may know that I am at my rope's end."

I took the letter, smiling. "And how long is your rope to be? The
Homburg season doesn't last for ever."

"Does it last a month? Let that be my season! A month hence you will
give it back to me."

"To-morrow if you say so. Meanwhile, let it rest in peace!" And I
consigned it to the most sacred interstice of my pocket-book. To say
that I was disposed to humour the poor fellow would seem to be saying
that I thought his request fantastic. It was his situation, by no fault
of his own, that was fantastic, and he was only trying to be natural. He
watched me put away the letter, and when it had