a
man want? Not women. Women's a regrettable hincident."

"Aren't you cold standing there in your shirt sleeves, Wiggleswick?" asked
Septimus, in his hesitating way.

Wiggleswick ignored the delicacy of the suggestion.

"Cold? No. If I was cold, I'd precious soon make myself warm. Which I wish
to remark, Mr. Dix, that now you've parted with the missus pro tem., don't
you think it's more cosy and comfortable? I don't say but if she came here
I'd do my best willingly. I know my duty. But, sir, a woman, what with her
dusting and cleaning, and washing of herself in hot water, and putting
flowers in mugs do upset things terrible. I've been married oftener than
you. I know 'em. Don't you think we get on better, the two of us, as we
are?"

"We get on very nicely," said Septimus politely, "but I'm afraid you'll
have to do some cleaning and dusting to-day. I'm awfully sorry to trouble
you. Mrs. Middlemist has returned to England, and may be down this
afternoon."

A look of dismay came over Wiggleswick's crafty, weather-beaten face.

"Well, I'm jiggered. I'm just jiggered," said he.

"I'm delighted to hear it," murmured Septimus. "Bring me my shaving-water."

"Are you going to get up?" asked Wiggleswick in a tone of disgusted
incredulity.

"Yes."

"Then you'll be wanting breakfast."

"Oh, no," said Septimus, with the wan smile that sometimes flickered over
his features, "afternoon tea will do--with some bacon and eggs and things."

The old man went out grumbling, and Septimus turned to his letter. It was
very kind of Emmy, he thought, to write to him so affectionately.

He spent the mild, autumn morning on the common consulting the ducks in the
pond, and seeking inspiration from the lame donkey, his state of mind being
still complicated. The more he reflected on Emmy's letter and on
Wiggleswick's views on women the less did he agree with Wiggleswick. He
missed Emmy, who had treated him very tenderly since their talk in the
moonlight at Hottetot-sur-Mer; and he missed the boy who, in the later days
in Paris, after her return, had conceived an infantile infatuation for him,
and would cease crying or go to sleep peacefully if only he could gather a
clump of Septimus's hair in his tiny fingers. He missed a thousand gossamer
trifles--each one so imperceptible, all added together so significant. He
was not in the least cosy and comfortable with his old villain of a
serving-man.

Thus he looked forward, in his twilight