nd himself shivering on the edge of ruin; the touch
of confirmatory news, and over he went.

No one was aware of it but Mr. Charman himself and he, a few days later,
lay sick unto death. Mr. Charman's own estate suffered inappreciably from
what to his friend meant sheer disaster. And Mr. Tymperley breathed not a
word to the widow; spoke not a word to any one at all, except the lawyer,
who quietly wound up his affairs, and the sister whose children must needs
go without avuncular aid. During the absence of his friendly neighbours
after Mr. Charman's death, he quietly disappeared.

The poor gentleman was then close upon forty years old. There remained to
him a capital which he durst not expend; invested, it bore him an income
upon which a labourer could scarce have subsisted. The only possible place
of residence--because the only sure place of hiding--was London, and to
London Mr. Tymperley betook himself. Not at once did he learn the art of
combating starvation with minim resources. During his initiatory trials he
was once brought so low, by hunger and humiliation, that he swallowed
something of his pride, and wrote to a certain acquaintance, asking counsel
and indirect help. But only a man in Mr. Tymperley's position learns how
vain is well-meaning advice, and how impotent is social influence. Had he
begged for money, he would have received, no doubt, a cheque, with words of
compassion; but Mr. Tymperley could never bring himself to that.

He tried to make profit of his former amusement, fretwork, and to a certain
extent succeeded, earning in six months half a sovereign. But the prospect
of adding one pound a year to his starveling dividends did not greatly
exhilarate him.

All this time he was of course living in absolute solitude. Poverty is the
great secluder--unless one belongs to the rank which is born to it; a
sensitive man who no longer finds himself on equal terms with his natural
associates, shrinks into loneliness, and learns with some surprise how very
willing people are to forget his existence. London is a wilderness
abounding in anchorites--voluntary or constrained. As he wandered about the
streets and parks, or killed time in museums and galleries (where nothing
had to be paid), Mr. Tymperley often recognised brethren in seclusion; he
understood the furtive glance which met his own, he read the peaked visage,
marked with understanding sympathy the shabby-genteel apparel. No
interchange of confidences bet