l act of
generosity which set him on his legs again. So that Dicky Pilkington
was always happy in his conscience as in everything else.

He had been prepared to do the handsome thing by Miss Harden, only her
manner had somehow "choked him off." He could have afforded it, for he
considered this Freddy Harden business as his very largest deal. He
held a mortgage on the land, from the river to the top of Harcombe
Hill. There was any amount to be got out of the pictures and the
furniture. And the library was not altogether to be sneezed at. It had
been Fred Harden's last desperate resource, (rather poor security in
Dicky's opinion); but if the sum advanced had not been prodigious
(compared with the sums that had gone before it) the interest had
been high. So that, in returning from his tour of inspection, he felt
considerably elated.

Rickman, as he went down the High Street that evening, saw Dicky a
little way in front of him. He noticed that the financial agent was an
object of considerable interest to the people of Harmouth. Men stood
at shop doors and street corners, women (according to their social
standing) hung out of bedroom windows or hid behind parlour curtains
to look after him as he went. Here and there Rickman caught sullen and
indignant glances, derisive words and laughter. Evidently the spirit
of Harmouth was hostile to Dicky. A Harden was a Harden, and Sir
Frederick's magnificently complete disaster had moved even the
townspeople, his creditors.

The excitement caused by Dicky concentrated at the windows of the
London and Provincial Bank, where Sir Frederick had had a large
balance--overdrawn.

Harmouth High Street is a lane, wide at the top and narrow at the
bottom, which gives on to the esplanade between the Marine Hotel and
the Bank. At a certain distance these buildings cut the view into a
thin slip of grey beach and steep blue sea. The form of Dicky was now
visible in the centre of that slip, top-hatted, distinct against the
blue. He stood on the edge of the esplanade as on a railway platform,
reading the paper and smoking a cigar. From time to time, looking up
with an expression half visionary, half voluptuous, he puffed and spat
in dreamy rhythmic sequence.

"_Coelum, non animam_," said Rickman to himself, "they change their
skies, but not their habits." When he came up with him, he found the
soul of Pilkington disporting itself in its own airy element,
exchanging ideas with two young damsels w