d die amid such surroundings; sooner or later, circumstance
would prompt the desirable change. Circumstance, at this stage of his
career, was Harvey's god; he waited upon its direction with an air of
wisdom, of mature philosophy.

Of his landlord, Buncombe, he gradually learnt all that he cared to
know. The moment came when Buncombe grew confidential, and he, too, had
a matrimonial history to disclose. Poverty played no part in it; his
business flourished, and Mrs. Buncombe, throughout a cohabitation of
five years, made no complaint of her lot. All at once--so asserted
Buncombe--the lady began to talk of dullness; for a few months she
moped, then of a sudden left home, and in a day or two announced by
letter that she had taken a place as barmaid at a music-hall. There
followed an interview between husband and wife, with the result, said
Buncombe, that they parted the best of friends, but with an
understanding that Mrs. Buncombe should be free to follow her own walk
in life, with a moderate allowance to supplement what she could earn.
That was five years ago. Mrs. Buncombe now sang at second-rate halls,
and enjoyed a certain popularity, which seemed to her an ample
justification of the independence she had claimed. She was just thirty,
tolerably good-looking, and full of the enjoyment of life. Her
children, originally left in the care of her mother, whom Buncombe
supported, were now looked after by the two servants of the house, and
Buncombe seemed to have no conscientious troubles on that score; to
Harvey Rolfe's eye it was plain that the brother and sister were
growing up as vicious little savages, but he permitted himself no
remark on the subject.

After a few conversations, he gained an inkling of Buncombe's motive in
taking a house so much larger than he needed. This magnificence was
meant as an attraction to the roaming wife, whom, it was clear,
Buncombe both wished and hoped to welcome back before very long. She
did occasionally visit the house, though only for an hour or two; just
to show, said Buncombe, that there was no ill-feeling. On his part,
evidently, there was none whatever. An easy-going, simple-minded
fellow, aged about forty, with a boyish good temper and no will to
speak of, he seemed never to entertain a doubt of his wife's honesty,
and in any case would probably have agreed, on the least persuasion, to
let bygones be bygones. He spoke rather proudly than otherwise of Mrs.
Buncombe's artistic succe