utwardly affected Denzil's
life. As before, he spent a good deal of his time in the rooms at
Clement's Inn, and cultivated domesticity at Clapham. He was again
working in earnest at his History of the Vikings. Something would at
last come of it; a heap of manuscript attested his solid progress.

To-day he had come to town only for an hour or two. Glazzard was to
call at half-past six, and they would go together to dine with Lilian.
In his report to her, Quarrier had spoken nothing less than truth. "The
lady with whom you chanced to see me the other day was my wife. I have
been married for a year and a half--a strictly private matter. Be so
good as to respect my confidence." That was all Glazzard had learnt;
sufficient to excite no little curiosity in the connoisseur.

Denzil's chambers had a marked characteristic; they were full of
objects and pictures which declared his love of Northern lands and
seas. At work he sat in the midst of a little museum. To the bear, the
elk, the seal, he was indebted for comforts and ornaments; on his
shelves were quaint collections of crockery; coins of historical value
displayed themselves in cases on the walls; shoes and garments of
outlandish fashion lay here and there. Probably few private libraries
in England could boast such an array of Scandinavian literature as was
here exhibited. As a matter of course the rooms had accumulated even
more dirt than one expects in a bachelor's retreat; they were redolent
of the fume of many pipes.

When Glazzard tapped at the inner door and entered, his friend, who sat
at the writing-table in evening costume, threw up his arms, stretched
himself, and yawned noisily.

"Working at your book?" asked the other.

"No; letters. I don't care for the Sea-Kings just now. They're rather
remote old dogs, after all, you know."

"Distinctly, I should say."

"A queer thing, on the whole, that I can stick so to them. But I like
their spirit. You're not a pugnacious fellow, I think, Glazzard?"

"No, I think not."

"But I am, you know. I mean it literally. Every now and then I feel I
should like to thrash some one. I read in the paper this morning of
some son of a"----(Denzil's language occasionally reminded one that he
had been a sailor) "who had cheated a lot of poor servant-girls out of
their savings. My fists itched to be at that lubber! There's a good
deal to be said for the fighting instinct in man, you know."

"So thinks 'Arry of the music-halls."