“Thank you, Mr. Rickman,” said she with a return to her old demeanour.  “And now I suppose I’d better say good-night?”

She turned.  They said good-night.  He sprang to open, the door for her.  As she went through it, his heart, if it did not go with her, was touched, most palpably, unmistakably touched at seeing her go.  He had not loved Flossie; but he might have loved her.

Mr. Soper, who had been waiting all the while on the stairs, walked in through the open door.  He closed it secretly.

He laid his hand affectionately on Rickman’s shoulder.  “Rickman,” he said solemnly, “while I ’ave the opportunity, I want to speak to you.  If it should ’appen that a fiver would be useful to you, don’t you hesitate to come to me.”

“Oh, Soper, thanks most awfully.  Really, no, I couldn’t think of it.”

“But I mean it.  I really do.  So don’t you ’esitate; and there needn’t be any hurry about repayment.  That,” said Mr. Soper, “is quite immaterial.”  Failing to extract from Rickman any distinct promise, he withdrew; but not before he had pressed upon his immediate acceptance a box of his favourites, the Flor di Dindigul.

By this time Rickman’s heart was exceedingly uncomfortable inside him.  He had hated Soper.

He thought it was all over, and he was glad to escape from these really very trying interviews to the quiet of his own room.  There he found Spinks sitting on his bed waiting for him.  Spinks had come to lay before him an offering and a scheme.  The offering was no less than two dozen of gents’ best all-wool knitted hose, double-toed and heeled.  The scheme was for enabling Rickman thenceforward to purchase all manner of retail haberdashery at wholesale prices by the simple method of impersonating Spinks.  At least in the long-run it amounted to that, and Rickman had some difficulty in persuading Spinks that his scheme, though in the last degree glorious and romantic, was, from an ethical point of view, not strictly feasible.

“What a rum joker you are, Rickman.  I never thought of that.  I wonder—­” (He mused in an unconscious endeavour to restore the moral balance between him and Rickman).  “I wonder who’ll put you to bed, old chappy, when you’re tight.”

“Don’t fret, Spinky.  I’m almost afraid that I shall never be tight again in this world.”

“Oh, Gosh,” said Spinks, and sighed profoundly.  Then, with a slight recovery, “do you mean you won’t be able to afford it?”

“You can put it that way, if you like.”

In time Spinks left him and Rickman was alone.  Just as he was wondering whether or no he would pack his books up before turning in, there was a soft rap at his door.  He said, “Come in” to the rap; and to himself he said, “Who next?”

It was Mrs. Downey; she glanced round the room, looked at Flossie’s photograph with disapproval, and removed, not without severity, Miss Bramble’s bed-socks from a chair.  She had brought no gift; but she sat down heavily like a woman who has carried a burden about with her all day, and can carry it no farther.  Her features were almost obliterated with emotion and glazed with tears that she made no effort to remove.