ative.

"There was a Mr. Sherwin I once knew," I said, forging in those words
the first link in the long chain of deceit which was afterwards to
fetter and degrade me--"a Mr. Sherwin who is now, as I have heard,
living somewhere in the Hollyoake Square neighbourhood. He was a
bachelor--I don't know whether my friend and your master are the same?"

"Oh dear no, Sir! My master is a married man, and has one daughter--Miss
Margaret--who is reckoned a very fine young lady, Sir!" And the man
grinned as he spoke--a grin that sickened and shocked me.

I was answered at last: I had discovered all. Margaret!--I had heard her
name, too. Margaret!--it had never hitherto been a favourite name with
me. Now I felt a sort of terror as I detected myself repeating it, and
finding a new, unimagined poetry in the sound.

Could this be love?--pure, first love for a shopkeeper's daughter, whom
I had seen for a quarter of an hour in an omnibus, and followed home for
another quarter of an hour? The thing was impossible. And yet, I felt
a strange unwillingness to go back to our house, and see my father and
sister, just at that moment.

I was still walking onward slowly, but not in the direction of home,
when I met an old college friend of my brother's, and an acquaintance
of mine--a reckless, good-humoured, convivial fellow. He greeted me at
once, with uproarious cordiality; and insisted on my accompanying him to
dine at his club.

If the thoughts that still hung heavy on my mind were only the morbid,
fanciful thoughts of the hour, here was a man whose society would
dissipate them. I resolved to try the experiment, and accepted his
invitation.

At dinner, I tried hard to rival him in jest and joviality; I drank much
more than my usual quantity of wine--but it was useless. The gay words
came fainting from my heart, and fell dead on my lips. The wine fevered,
but did not exhilarate me. Still, the image of the dark beauty of the
morning was the one reigning image of my thoughts--still, the influence
of the morning, at once sinister and seductive, kept its hold on my
heart.

I gave up the struggle. I longed to be alone again. My friend soon found
that my forced spirits were flagging; he tried to rouse me, tried to
talk for two, ordered more wine, but everything failed. Yawning at last,
in undisguised despair, he suggested a visit to the theatre.

I excused myself--professed illness--hinted that the wine had been
too much for me. He laugh