s home; and Toffy accepted it all, and philosophized
about it in his grave way, and read his Bible, and loved Mrs. Avory.
No one but Toffy would have loved her; she was quite plain and she was
separated from her husband--a truculent gentleman who employed his
leisure moments in making his wife miserable. And she had a daughter
of ten years old towards whose maintenance Mrs. Avory made blouses and
trimmed parasols for which her friends hardly ever paid her.

The world, with its ever-ready explanation of conduct and its facility
in finding motives, ascribed Sir Nigel's chronic impecuniosity to the
fact that he contributed to the support of Mrs. Avory and her little
girl. Mrs. Avory, who knew quite well what was said of her, ate her
cold mutton for supper, and economized in coals in the winter, and paid
her little weekly bills, and wondered sometimes what was the use of
trying to be good when so few people believed in goodness.

Toffy came to see her every Sunday when he was in London; or, if he did
not do so, Mrs. Avory wrote him long letters in very indistinct
handwriting, and told him that it was all right, and that she really
hoped he would marry and be as happy as he deserved to be. And the
letters were generally blotted and blistered with tears.

Miss Abingdon put her key-basket upon the dressing-table and sat down
in an armchair on the farther side of the room. It upset her very much
to see Sir Nigel looking so ill, and she believed that to read the
Bible at odd hours was a sign of approaching death.

'You must have some beef-tea at eleven,' Miss Abingdon said, and felt
glad that she was able to do something in a crisis.

'I think I was brought up on beef-tea,' said Toffy. He had accepted,
with his usual philosophy, the fact that whether you broke your back or
your heart a woman's unfailing remedy was a cup of beef-tea.

'And I am sure you would like your own servant,' said Miss Abingdon; 'I
suppose you have some one over at Hulworth for whom you could send?'

'My man is an awful thief,' said Toffy, 'which is why I keep him.
Otherwise, I don't think there is a single thing he can do, except put
studs in my shirts. Hopwood will only steal Peter's things,' he added
reassuringly. 'He tells me my things are generally stolen and that I
never have anything to wear, and so he borrows all he can from Peter.
It is an extraordinary thing,' said Sir Nigel, beginning his sentence
with his usual formula--the formula