’Well, the first thing to do was to answer Mrs. Weare’s letter.  He lit his lamp and sat down at the crazy little deal table; but his pen dipped several times into the ink before he found himself able to write.

    ’Dear Mrs. Weare,’—­

Then, so long a pause that he seemed to be falling asleep.  With a jerk, he bent again to his task.

    ’With sincere gratitude I acknowledge the receipt of your most kind
    and generous donation.  The money...’

(Again his hand lay idle for several minutes.)

    ’shall be used as you wish, and I will render to you a detailed
    account of the benefits conferred by it.’

Never had he found composition so difficult.  He felt that he was expressing himself wretchedly; a clog was on his brain.  It cost him an exertion of physical strength to conclude the letter.  When it was done, he went out, purchased a stamp at a tobacconist’s shop, and dropped the envelope into the post.

Little slumber had Mr. Tymperley that night.  On lying down, he began to wonder where he should find the poor people worthy of sharing in this benefaction.  Of course he had no acquaintance with the class of persons of whom Mrs. Weare was thinking.  In a sense, all the families round about were poor, but—­he asked himself—­had poverty the same meaning for them as for him?  Was there a man or woman in this grimy street who, compared with himself, had any right to be called poor at all?  An educated man forced to live among the lower classes arrives at many interesting conclusions with regard to them; one conclusion long since fixed in Mr. Tymperley’s mind was that the ‘suffering’ of those classes is very much exaggerated by outsiders using a criterion quite inapplicable.  He saw around him a world of coarse jollity, of contented labour, and of brutal apathy.  It seemed to him more than probable that the only person in this street conscious of poverty, and suffering under it, was himself.

From nightmarish dozing, he started with a vivid thought, a recollection which seemed to pierce his brain.  To whom did he owe his fall from comfort and self-respect, and all his long miseries?  To Mrs. Weare’s father.  And, from this point of view, might the cheque for five pounds be considered as mere restitution?  Might it not strictly be applicable to his own necessities?

Another little gap of semi-consciousness led to another strange reflection.  What if Mrs. Weare (a sensible woman) suspected, or even had discovered, the truth about him.  What if she secretly meant the money for his own use?

Earliest daylight made this suggestion look very insubstantial; on the other hand, it strengthened his memory of Mr. Charman’s virtual indebtedness to him.  He jumped out of bed to reach the cheque, and for an hour lay with it in his hand.  Then he rose and dressed mechanically.

After the day’s work he rambled in a street of large shops.  A bootmaker’s arrested him; he stood before the window for a long time, turning over and over in his pocket a sovereign—­no small fraction of the ready coin which had to support him until dividend day.  Then he crossed the threshold.