he first days of October found me still at Coblenz, lingering amongst
the valleys and vineyards, and loath to exchange them for the autumnal
fogs and emptiness of London. Thither, however, I was compelled to
return; and I endeavoured to console myself for the necessity by
discovering that the green Rhine grew brown, the trees scant of leaves,
the evenings long and chilly. I had heard nothing of Van Haubitz, and
had ceased to think of him, when, walking out at dusk on the eve of the
day fixed for my departure, I suddenly encountered him. He had just
arrived by a steamboat coming up stream; his wife and mother-in-law were
with him, and they were about to enter a fifth-rate inn, which, two
months previously, he would have felt insulted if solicited to
patronise. I was shocked by the change that had taken place in all three
of them. In five weeks they had grown five years older. Emilie had lost
her freshness, her eye its sparkle; and the melancholy smile with which
she welcomed me made my heart ache. Madame Sendel's rotund checks had
collapsed, she looked cross and jaundiced, and more snuffy than ever.
Van Haubitz was thin and haggard, his hair and mustaches, formerly
glossy and well-trimmed, were ragged and neglected, his dress, once so
smart and carefully arranged, was soiled and slovenly. My imagination
furnished me with a rapid and vivid sketch of the anxieties and
disappointments and heart-burnings, which, more than any actual bodily
privations, had worked so great a change in so short a time. Van Haubitz
started on seeing me, and faltered in his pace, as if unwilling to enter
the shabby hotel in my presence. The hesitation was momentary. "Worse
quarters than we used to meet in," said he, with a bitter smile. "I will
not ask you into this dog-hole. Wait an instant, and I will walk with
you."

Badly as I thought of Van Haubitz, and indisposed as I was to keep up
any acquaintance with such an unprincipled adventurer, I had not the
heart, seeing him so miserable and down in the world, to turn my back
upon him at once. So I entered the hotel, and waited in the public room.
In a few minutes he reappeared with the two ladies, and we all four
strolled out in the direction of the Rhine. I did not ask the Dutchman
the result of his journey. It was unnecessary. His disheartened air and
general appearance told the tale of disappointment, of humiliating
petitions sternly rejected, of hopes fled and a cheerless future. He
kept sile