he overcoat necessary, his friend carefully brushed it
and drew it on with a caution which probably had reference to
starting seams. Then he put into the pocket his pipe, his pouch, his
tobacco-stopper, and his matches, murmuring to himself a Greek iambic
line which had come into his head a propos of nothing obvious.

'Go out,' he said, 'and then I'll extinguish the lamp. Mind the second
step down, as usual.'

They issued into Clipstone Street, turned northward, crossed Euston
Road, and came into Albany Street, where, in a house of decent exterior,
Mr Whelpdale had his present abode. A girl who opened the door requested
them to walk up to the topmost storey.

A cheery voice called to them from within the room at which they
knocked. This lodging spoke more distinctly of civilisation than that
inhabited by Biffen; it contained the minimum supply of furniture needed
to give it somewhat the appearance of a study, but the articles were in
good condition. One end of the room was concealed by a chintz curtain;
scrutiny would have discovered behind the draping the essential
equipments of a bedchamber.

Mr Whelpdale sat by the fire, smoking a cigar. He was a plain-featured
but graceful and refined-looking man of thirty, with wavy chestnut
hair and a trimmed beard which became him well. At present he wore a
dressing-gown and was without collar.

'Welcome, gents both!' he cried facetiously. 'Ages since I saw you,
Reardon. I've been reading your new book. Uncommonly good things in it
here and there--uncommonly good.'

Whelpdale had the weakness of being unable to tell a disagreeable
truth, and a tendency to flattery which had always made Reardon rather
uncomfortable in his society. Though there was no need whatever of his
mentioning 'Margaret Home,' he preferred to frame smooth fictions rather
than keep a silence which might be construed as unfavourable criticism.

'In the last volume,' he went on, 'I think there are one or two things
as good as you ever did; I do indeed.'

Reardon made no acknowledgment of these remarks. They irritated him, for
he knew their insincerity. Biffen, understanding his friend's silence,
struck in on another subject.

'Who is this lady of whom you write to me?'

'Ah, quite a story! I'm going to be married, Reardon. A serious
marriage. Light your pipes, and I'll tell you all about it. Startled
you, I suppose, Biffen? Unlikely news, eh? Some people would call it a
rash step, I dare say. We shal