‘Good evening, Tom; pleasant for the time of year.’

The speaker was a man of fifty, stout and florid—­the latter peculiarity especially marked in his nose; he looked like a substantial merchant, and spoke with rather pompous geniality.  Thrusting his arm through the clerk’s, he walked with him over Blackfriars Bridge, talking in the friendliest strain of things impersonal.  Beyond the bridge—­

‘Do you tram it?’ he asked, glancing upwards.

‘I think so, Mr. Warbeck,’ answered the other, whose tone to his acquaintance was very respectful.

’Ah!  I’m afraid it would make me late.—­Oh, by the bye, Tom, I’m really ashamed—­most awkward that this kind of thing happens so often, but—­could you, do you think?—­No, no; one sovereign only.  Let me make a note of it by the light of this shop-window.  Really, the total is getting quite considerable.  Tut, tut!  You shall have a cheque in a day or two.  Oh, it can’t run on any longer; I’m completely ashamed of myself.  Entirely temporary—­as I explained.  A cheque on Wednesday at latest.  Good-bye, Tom.’

They shook hands cordially, and Mr. Warbeck went off in a hansom.  Thomas Bird, changing his mind about the tram, walked all the way home, and with bent head.  One would have thought that he had just done something discreditable.

He was wondering, not for the first time, whether Mrs. Warbeck knew or suspected that her husband was in debt to him.  Miss Warbeck—­Alma Warbeck—­assuredly had never dreamed of such a thing.  The system of casual loans dated from nearly twelve months ago, and the total was now not much less than thirty pounds.  Mr. Warbeck never failed to declare that he was ashamed of himself, but probably the creditor experienced more discomfort of that kind.  At the first playful demand Thomas felt a shock.  He had known the Warbecks since he was a lad, had always respected them as somewhat his social superiors, and, as time went on, had recognised that the difference of position grew wider:  he remaining stationary, while his friends progressed to a larger way of living.  But they were, he thought, no less kind to him; Mrs. Warbeck invited him to the house about once a month, and Alma—­Alma talked with him in such a pleasant, homely way.  Did their expenditure outrun their means?  He would never have supposed it, but for the City man’s singular behaviour.  About the cheque so often promised he cared little, but with all his heart he hoped Mrs. Warbeck did not know.

Somewhere near Camberwell Green, just as he had resumed the debate about his purchases, a middle-aged woman met him with friendly greeting.  Her appearance was that of a decent shopkeeper’s wife.

’I’m so glad I’ve met you, Mr. Bird.  I know you’ll be anxious to hear how our poor friend is getting on.’

She spoke of the daughter of a decayed tradesman, a weak and overworked girl, who had lain for some weeks in St. Thomas’s Hospital.  Mrs. Pritchard, a gadabout infected with philanthropy, was fond of discovering such cases, and in everyday conversation made the most of her charitable efforts.