e others had left the room that Jewdwine
had courage to raise his head tentatively. He had only seen that young
man's back, and he still clung to the hope that it might not be
Rickman's, after all.

He looked up as steadily as he dared. Oh, no doubt that it was
Rickman's back; no doubt, too, that it was his, Jewdwine's, duty to go
up and speak to him. The young man had changed his place; he was at
his window again, contemplating--as Jewdwine reflected with a pang of
sympathy--the shop. So profound, so sacred almost, was his absorption
that Jewdwine hesitated in his approach.

"_Is_ it Rickman?" he asked, still tentative.

"Mr. Jewdwine!" Rickman's soul leapt to Jewdwine's from the depths;
but the "Mister" marked the space it had had to travel. "When did you
come up?"

"Three hours ago." ("He looks innocent," said Jewdwine to himself.)

"Then you weren't prepared for that?"

Jewdwine followed his fascinated gaze. He smiled faintly.

"You haven't noticed our new departure? We not only purchase
Gentlemen's Libraries, but we sell the works of persons who may or may
not be gentlemen."

Jewdwine felt profoundly uncomfortable. Rickman's face preserved its
inimitable innocence, but he continued to stare fixedly before him.

"Poor fellow," thought Jewdwine, "he must have heard those
imbecilities." He felt horribly responsible, responsible to the Club
for the behaviour of Rickman and responsible to Rickman for the
behaviour of the Club. What could he do to make it up to him? Happy
thought--he would ask him to dinner at--yes, at his sister's, Miss
Jewdwine's, house at Hampstead. That was to say, if his cousin, Lucia
Harden, did not happen to be staying there. He was not quite sure how
Rickman would strike that most fastidious of young ladies. And Rankin
had said he drank.

In the light of Lucia Harden's and his sister's possible criticism, he
considered him more carefully than he had done before.

The contrast between the two men was certainly rather marked. A
gentleman can be neither more nor less than a gentleman, and Rickman,
in a sense not altogether intended by Maddox, was decidedly more. His
individuality was too exuberant, too irrepressible. He had the
restless, emphatic air of a man who has but little leisure and is too
obviously anxious to make the most of what he has. He always seemed to
be talking against time; and as he talked his emotions played visibly,
too visibly, on his humorous, irregular face. Taki