Rickman’s entrance produced a certain vibration down both sides of the table, a movement unanimous, yet discordant, as if the nerves of this social body that was “Mrs. Downey’s” were being played upon every way at once.  Each boarder seemed to be preparing for an experience that, whether agreeable or otherwise, would be disturbing to the last degree.  The birds of passage raised their heads with a faint flutter.  Miss Walker contemplated a chromo-lithograph with a dreamy air.  Mr. Soper strove vainly to fix himself in an attitude of dignified detachment.

The boarding-house was about to suffer the tremendous invasion of a foreign element.  For a moment it was united.

Mrs. Downey’s face revealed a grave anxiety.  She was evidently asking herself:  “Was he, or was he not, in his vein?”

A glance at the object of his adoration decided the question for Mr. Spinks.  Rickman was, thank goodness, not in his vein, in which state he was incomprehensible to anybody but Miss Roots.  He was in that comparatively commonplace condition which rendered him accessible to Mr. Spinks.

“Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce my friend, the lyte Mr. Ryzors.  Jemima, show the deceased gentleman to his chair.  Miss Walker, Mr. Ryzors.  He is really ’appy to myke your acquaintance, Miss Walker, though at first sight he may not appear so.  Wot you might be apt to mistyke for coldness is merely ’is intense reserve.”

“Oh, dry up, Spinks.”

No, Mr. Rickman was certainly not in his vein this evening.  He made no apology whatever for his lateness.  He ignored the commercial gentleman’s “Good-evening, Rickman.”  As he slipped into his place between Miss Walker and Miss Roots he forgot his usual “Busy to-day at the Museum, Miss Roots?”—­a question that recognized her as a fellow worker in the fields of literature, thus lightening the obscurity that hid her labours there.

And for Miss Flossie’s timid greeting (the lifting of her upper lip that just showed two dear little white teeth) he gave back a reluctant and embarrassed smile.  He used to like sitting by Flossie because she was so pretty and so plump.  He used to be sorry for her, because she worked so hard, and, though plump, was so pathetically anaemic and so shy.  Critically considered, her body, in spite of its plumpness, was a little too small for her head, and her features were a little too small for her face, but then they were so very correct, as correct as her demeanour and the way she did her hair.  She had clusters and curls and loops and coils of hair, black as her eyes, which were so black that he couldn’t tell the iris from the pupil.  Not that Flossie had ever let him try.  And now he had forgotten whether they were black or blue, forgotten everything about them and her.  Flossie might be as correct as Flossie pleased, she simply didn’t matter.

When she saw him smile she turned up her eyes to the chromo-lithograph again.  The little clerk brought with her from the City an air of incorruptible propriety, assumed for purposes of self-protection, and at variance with her style of hair-dressing and the blueness and gaiety of her blouse.  With all that it implied and took for granted, it used to strike him as pathetic.  But now, he didn’t find Flossie in the least pathetic.