“And what do I know of Aurelia or any other girl?” he says to me with that abstracted air.  “I, whose Aurelias were of another century and another zone.”

Then he falls into a silence which it seems quite profane to interrupt.  But as we sit upon our high stools at the desk opposite each other, I leaning upon my elbows and looking at him; he, with sidelong face, glancing out of the window, as if it commanded a boundless landscape, instead of a dim, dingy office court, I cannot refrain from saying: 

“Well!”

He turns slowly, and I go chatting on—­a little too loquacious, perhaps, about those young girls.  But I know that Titbottom regards such an excess as venial, for his sadness is so sweet that you could believe it the reflection of a smile from long, long years ago.

One day, after I had been talking for a long time, and we had put up our books, and were preparing to leave, he stood for some time by the window, gazing with a drooping intentness, as if he really saw something more than the dark court, and said slowly: 

“Perhaps you would have different impressions of things if you saw them through my spectacles.”

There was no change in his expression.  He still looked from the window, and I said: 

“Titbottom, I did not know that you used glasses.  I have never seen you wearing spectacles.”

“No, I don’t often wear them.  I am not very fond of looking through them.  But sometimes an irresistible necessity compels me to put them on, and I cannot help seeing.”  Titbottom sighed.

“Is it so grievous a fate, to see?” inquired I.

“Yes; through my spectacles,” he said, turning slowly and looking at me with wan solemnity.

It grew dark as we stood in the office talking, and taking our hats we went out together.  The narrow street of business was deserted.  The heavy iron shutters were gloomily closed over the windows.  From one or two offices struggled the dim gleam of an early candle, by whose light some perplexed accountant sat belated, and hunting for his error.  A careless clerk passed, whistling.  But the great tide of life had ebbed.  We heard its roar far away, and the sound stole into that silent street like the murmur of the ocean into an inland dell.

“You will come and dine with us, Titbottom?”

He assented by continuing to walk with me, and I think we were both glad when we reached the house, and Prue came to meet us, saying: 

“Do you know I hoped you would bring Mr. Titbottom to dine?”

Titbottom smiled gently, and answered: 

“He might have brought his spectacles with him, and I have been a happier man for it.”

Prue looked a little puzzled.

“My dear,” I said, “you must know that our friend, Mr. Titbottom, is the happy possessor of a pair of wonderful spectacles.  I have never seen them, indeed; and, from what he says, I should be rather afraid of being seen by them.  Most short-sighted persons are very glad to have the help of glasses; but Mr. Titbottom seems to find very little pleasure in his.”