’One felt almost justified in using strong language, sir—­though I always avoid it on principle.  However, I must tell you that the houses weren’t all.  Luckily there was a little money as well, and, putting it with my own savings, sir, I found it would yield me an income.  When I say an income, I mean, of course, for a man in my position.  Even when I have to go into lodgings, when my houses become the property of the ground-landlord—­to my mind, Mr. Goldthorpe, a very great injustice, but I don’t set myself up against the law of the land—­I shall just be able to live.  And that’s no small blessing, sir, as I think you’ll agree.’

‘Rather!  It’s the height of human felicity, Mr. Spicer.  I envy you vastly.’

’Well, sir, I’m rather disposed to look at it in that light myself.  My nature is not discontented, Mr. Goldthorpe.  But, sir, if you could have seen me when the lawyer began to explain about the houses!  I was absolutely ignorant of the leasehold system; and at first I really couldn’t understand.  The lawyer thought me a fool, I fear, sir.  And when I came down here and saw the houses themselves!  I’m afraid, Mr. Goldthorpe, I’m really afraid, sir, I was weak enough to shed a tear.’

They were sitting by the light of a very small lamp, which did not tend to cheerfulness.

‘Come,’ cried Goldthorpe, ’after all, the houses are yours for a twelvemonth.  Why shouldn’t we both live on here all the time?  It’ll be a little breezy in winter, but we could have the fireplaces knocked into shape, and keep up good fires.  When I’ve sold my book I’ll pay a higher rent, Mr. Spicer.  I like the old house, upon my word I do!  Come, let us have a tune before we go to bed.’

Smiling and happy, Mr. Spicer fetched from the cupboard his concertina, and after the usual apology for what he called his ’imperfect mastery of the instrument,’ sat down to play ‘Home, Sweet Home.’  He had played it for years, and evidently would never improve in his execution.  After ’Home, Sweet Home’ came ‘The Bluebells of Scotland,’ after that ‘Annie Laurie’; and Mr. Spicer’s repertory was at an end.  He talked of learning new pieces, but there was not the slightest hope of this achievement.

Mr. Spicer’s mental development had ceased more than twenty years ago, when, after extreme efforts, he had attained the qualification of chemist’s assistant.  Since then the world had stood still with him.  Though a true lover of books, he knew nothing of any that had been published during his own lifetime.  His father, though very poor, had possessed a little collection of volumes, the very same which now stood in Mr. Spicer’s cupboard.  The authors represented in this library were either English classics or obscure writers of the early part of the nineteenth century.  Knowing these books very thoroughly, Mr. Spicer sometimes indulged in a quotation which would have puzzled even the erudite.  His favourite poet was Cowper, whose moral sentiments