udge for yourself, Narramore."

"When you have seen her I think you'll take my views. Of course it's
the very last thing I ever imagined myself doing; but I begin to see
that the talk about fate isn't altogether humbug. I want this girl for
my wife, and I never met any one else whom I really _did_ want. She
suits me exactly. It isn't as if I thought of marrying an ordinary,
ignorant, low-class girl. Eve--that's her name--is very much out of the
common, look at her how you may. She's rather melancholy, but that's a
natural result of her life."

"No doubt, as you say, she wants a thorough change," remarked Hilliard,
smiling in the gloom.

"That's it. Her nerves are out of order. Well, I thought I should like
to tell you this, old chap. You'll get over the shock in time. I more
than half believe, still, that your moral indignation was genuine. And
why not? I ought to respect you for it."

"Are you going?"

"I must be in Bristol Road by five--promised to drink a cup of Mrs.
Stocker's tea this afternoon. I'm glad now that I have kept up a few
homely acquaintances; they may be useful, Of course I shall throw over
the Birchings and that lot. You see now why my thoughts have been
running on a country house!"

He went off laughing, and his friend sat down again by the fireside.

Half an hour passed. The fire had burnt low, and the room was quite
dark. At length, Hilliard bestirred himself. He lit the lamp, drew down
the blind, and seated himself at the table to write. With great
rapidity he covered four sides of note-paper, and addressed an
envelope. But he had no postage-stamp. It could be obtained at a
tobacconist's.

So he went out, and turned towards a little shop hard by. But when he
had stamped the letter he felt undecided about posting it. Eve had
promised to come to-morrow with Patty. If she again failed him it would
be time enough to write. If she kept her promise the presence of a
third person would be an intolerable restraint upon him. Yet why? Patty
might as well know all, and act as judge between them. There needed
little sagacity to arbitrate in a matter such as this.

To sit at home was impossible. He walked for the sake of walking,
straight on, without object. Down the long gas-lit perspective of
Bradford Street, with its closed, silent workshops, across the
miserable little river Rea--canal rather than river, sewer rather than
canal--up the steep ascent to St. Martin's and the Bull Ring, and the
bron