ease her, and to Henry's surprise, her eyes, her smiles, were more for
Mr. P. than for himself. She could be most attractive when she liked,
this young lady who had called his friend "horrid," and was absurdly
opposed to his dream of London. Henry did not know whether to be pleased
or disappointed at the bearing of Miss Winton. He was glad she had not
been cold to Mr. P., hurt that she was pleasant--so superfluously
pleasant. On the whole, he was irritated, uneasy.

Something in the manner of his friend contributed to this result. Not a
word had been spoken in the short conversation on the pavement of the
old market-place to awaken or enliven doubt or jealousy, but there was
an indefinable something in Mr. P.'s manner to Flo, and his remarks when
they parted from her, to indicate that he had not been favourably
impressed.

A year or two ago happiness seemed such an easy thing--so simple, so
difficult to escape--that by contrast, Henry's present state of
querulous unrest put it as far away as a fog removes the wonted
position of a prominent landmark. He had an inclination to kick
somebody--himself, deservedly. Could Flo be right about settling down
in Laysford, where he was a potential "somebody"? Suppose he had an
opportunity to go to London now, should he take it? If the man who
wrote as Adrian Grant had unsettled his mind so far as his old simple
faith in God's goodness and mercy was concerned, and Stratford and
Wheelton and Laysford together had muddied his pictures of journalism,
and even Flo had clouded his thoughts of happiness, what was worth
while? Might London be all he had painted it? Was it to be "never glad,
confident morning again"?

Such was the muddle of Henry's mind when the two returned to Mrs.
Arkwright's from their afternoon stroll, and each went to his own rooms.
Henry threw himself into an arm-chair and gave himself up to brooding
thoughts--dark, distracting. He was not long alone, for his
fellow-lodger came to his door in the space of five minutes, with a
letter open in his hand and a smiling face, which betokened good news.

"How's this for a piece of fortune?" he exclaimed, stepping briskly
towards Henry, and handing him the letter. "Read. It has just come with
the afternoon post."

What Henry read was a brief note from Mr. Swainton of the _Lyceum_,
saying, that, curiously enough, the very week he had received Mr. P.'s
letter asking him if he knew of any suitable post for his friend, Mr.
Ch