After a time, indeed, I tired of him.

At last we entered King's Cross--a little late, as is usual on a long
run.

"I have to get to the Carlton," my companion said. "Of course there
will be no taxis. But are not you in London very badly served in that
respect? We, in Paris, have taxis at any hour. When your stations
close I find always a great difficulty in getting a conveyance. By
the way! Could you not dine with me to-morrow night?"

"I am sorry," I replied. "But I have arranged to visit my uncle in
Orchard Street."

Two minutes later the train drew up slowly, and wishing my
fellow-traveller _bon soir_, I expressed a hope that one day, ere
long, we might meet again. I had not given him my card, as our
acquaintance was only upon chance, and--well, after all, he was only a
passing foreigner.

Half an hour after I had stepped from the train, I was back again in
my cosy little flat in Rivermead Mansions, after a very strenuous day.
On the hall table lay a letter from my solicitors. I tore it open
eagerly and read that they regretted to inform me that certain
investments I had made a year before, with the money which my aunt had
left me, had not realized my expectations. In other words, I had lost
the whole of my money!

All I possessed was the salary paid me by Messrs. Francis and
Goldsmith.

My heart stood still. The blow staggered me. Yet, after all, I had
been a fool--a fact which my solicitors had hinted at the time.

I crushed the letter in my hand and passed on into the little
sitting-room.

Harry had gone out to a dance, and had left a scribbled note on the
table saying that he had his latchkey and would not be back until two
or so. He wished me "cheerio." So having smoked a final cigarette I
retired.

Next day I went to the office in Great George Street and reported upon
the business I had done in York--and good business it was, too, with
the Municipal Electric Supply--and in the evening I returned across
Hammersmith Bridge at about six o'clock.

At seven our buxom "Kaiserin" put our meal upon the table--a roast, a
sweet, and a wedge of Cheshire cheese. The mind of the dear old soul,
who had so many relations, never rose above the butcher's joint and
apple tart. Alas! that cooking is an art still unknown in our dear old
England. We sit at table only by Nature's necessity--not to enjoy the
kindly fruits of the earth as do other nations.

Yet what could we expect of the 'Ammersmith charlady who l