now 'ow he's going to pay 'is way."

Before the grossness of this insinuation Mrs. Downey abandoned her
policy of silence.

"Some day," said Mrs. Downey, "Mr. Rickman will be in a very different
position to wot he is now. You mark my words." (And nobody marked them
but little Flossie Walker.)

Two tears rolled down Mrs. Downey's face and mingled with the tartan
of her blouse. A murmur of sympathy went round the room, and Mr. Soper
perceived that the rest of the company were sitting in an atmosphere
of emotion from which he was shut out.

"I beg of you, Mr. Soper, that you will let Mr. Rickman be, for once
this evening. Living together as we do, we all ought," said Mrs.
Downey, "to respect each other's feelings."

"Ah--feelings. Wot sort of respect does your young gentleman ever show
to mine? Takes me up one day and cuts me dead the next."

"He wouldn't have dreamed of such a thing if he hadn't been worried in
his mind. Mr. Rickman, Mr. Soper, is in trouble."

Mr. Soper was softened. "Is he? Well, really, I'm very sorry to hear
it, very sorry, I'm sure."

"My fear is," said Mrs. Downey, controlling her voice with difficulty,
"that he may be leaving us."

"If he does, Mrs. Downey, nobody will regret it more than I do."

"Well, I hope it won't come to that."

Mrs. Downey did not consider it politic to add that she was prepared
to make any sacrifice to prevent it. It was as well that Mr. Soper
should realize the consequences of an inability to pay your way. She
was not prepared to make any sacrifice for the sake of keeping _him_.

"But what," said Mrs. Downey to herself, "will the Dinner be without
Mr. Rickman?"

The Dinner was, in her imagination, a function, a literary symposium.
At the present moment, if you were to believe Mrs. Downey, no
dinner-table in London could show such a gathering of remarkable
people. But to none of these remarkable people did Mrs. Downey feel as
she felt to Mr. Rickman, who was the most remarkable of them all. By
her own statement she had enjoyed exceptional opportunities for
studying the ways of genius. There was a room at Mrs. Downey's which
she exhibited with pride as "Mr. Blenkinsop's room." Mr. Blenkinsop
was a poet, and Mr. Rickman had succeeded him. If Mrs. Downey did not
immediately recognize Mr. Rickman as a genius it was because he was so
utterly unlike Mr. Blenkinsop. But she had felt from the first that,
as she expressed it, "there was something about him," though w