MR. GISSING.

As he passed through the dim and silent aisles of the store, he surveyed
them again with mixed emotions. Here he might, apparently, have been
king. But he had no very poignant regret. Another of his numerous
selves, he reflected, had committed suicide. That was the right idea:
to keep sloughing them off, throwing overboard the unreal and factitious
Gissings, paring them down until he discovered the genuine and
inalienable creature.

And so, for the second time, he made a stealthy exit from the employees'
door.

Four days later he read in the paper of old Mr. Beagle's death. There
can be no doubt about it. The merchant died of a broken heart.

CHAPTER TEN

Mr. Poodle's reply was disappointing. He said:--

St. Bernard's Rectory, September 1st.

MY DEAR MR. GISSING:

I regret that I cannot conscientiously see my way to writing to the
Bishop in your behalf. Any testimonial I could compose would be doubtful
at best, for I cannot agree with you that the Church is your true
vocation. I do not believe that one who has deserted his family, as
you have, and whose record (even on the most charitable interpretation)
cannot be described as other than eccentric, would be useful in Holy
Orders. You say that your life in the city has been a great purgation.
If so, I suggest that you return and take up the burdens laid upon you.
It has meant great mortification to me that one of my own parish has
been the cause of these painful rumours that have afflicted our quiet
community. Notwithstanding, I wish you well, and hope that chastening
experience may bring you peace.

Very truly yours,

J. ROVER POODLE.

Gissing meditated this letter in the silence of along evening in
his room. He brought to the problem his favourite aid to clear
thinking--strong coffee mixed with condensed milk. Mrs. Purp had made
concession to his peculiarities when he had risen so high in the world:
better to break any rules, she thought, than lose so notable a tenant.
She had even installed a small gas-plate for him, so that he could brew
his morning and evening coffee.

So he took counsel with his percolator, whose bubbling was a sound he
found both soothing and stimulating. He regarded it as a kind of private
oracle, with a calm voice of its own. He listened attentively as
he waited for the liquid to darken. Appeal--to--the--Bishop,
Appeal--to-the--Bishop, seemed to be the speech of the jetting
gurgitation under the