But it happened one day that, as he was in the act of drawing his poor little quarterly salvage at the Bank of England, a lady saw him and knew him.  It was Mr. Charman’s widow.

’Why, Mr. Tymperley, what has become of you all this time?  Why have I never heard from you?  Is it true, as some one told me, that you have been living abroad?’

So utterly was he disconcerted, that in a mechanical way he echoed the lady’s last word:  ‘Abroad.’

‘But why didn’t you write to us?’ pursued Mrs. Charman, leaving him no time to say more.  ’How very unkind!  Why did you go away without a word?  My daughter says that we must have unconsciously offended you in some way.  Do explain!  Surely there can’t have been anything’

’My dear Mrs. Charman, it is I alone who am to blame.  I...the explanation is difficult; it involves a multiplicity of detail.  I beg you to interpret my unjustifiable behaviour as—­as pure idiosyncrasy.’

’Oh, you must come and see me.  You know that Ada’s married?  Yes, nearly a year ago.  How glad she will be to see you again.  So often she has spoken of you.  When can you dine?  To-morrow?’

‘With pleasure—­with great pleasure.’

‘Delightful!’

She gave her address, and they parted.

Now, a proof that Mr. Tymperley had never lost all hope of restitution to his native world lay in the fact of his having carefully preserved an evening-suit, with the appropriate patent-leather shoes.  Many a time had he been sorely tempted to sell these seeming superfluities; more than once, towards the end of his pinched quarter, the suit had been pledged for a few shillings; but to part with the supreme symbol of respectability would have meant despair—­a state of mind alien to Mr. Tymperley’s passive fortitude.  His jewellery, even watch and chain, had long since gone:  such gauds are not indispensable to a gentleman’s outfit.  He now congratulated himself on his prudence, for the meeting with Mrs. Charman had delighted as much as it embarrassed him, and the prospect of an evening in society made his heart glow.  He hastened home; he examined his garb of ceremony with anxious care, and found no glaring defect in it.  A shirt, a collar, a necktie must needs be purchased; happily he had the means.  But how explain himself?  Could he confess his place of abode, his startling poverty?  To do so would be to make an appeal to the compassion of his old friends, and from that he shrank in horror.  A gentleman will not, if-it can possibly be avoided, reveal circumstances likely to cause pain.  Must he, then, tell or imply a falsehood.  The whole truth involved a reproach of Mrs. Charman’s husband—­a thought he could not bear.

The next evening found him still worrying over this dilemma.  He reached Mrs. Charman’s house without having come to any decision.  In the drawing-room three persons awaited him:  the hostess, with her daughter and son-in-law, Mr. and Mrs. Weare.  The cordiality of his reception moved him all but to tears; overcome by many emotions, he lost his head.  He talked at random; and the result was so strange a piece of fiction, that no sooner had he evolved it than he stood aghast at himself.