“Wilding,” he asked hurriedly, and yet stopping short and glancing around as if for some visible cause of his state of mind:  “what is the matter?”

“My good George Vendale,” returned the wine-merchant, giving his hand with an appealing look, rather as if he wanted help to get over some obstacle, than as if he gave it in welcome or salutation:  “my good George Vendale, so much is the matter, that I shall never be myself again.  It is impossible that I can ever be myself again.  For, in fact, I am not myself.”

The new partner, a brown-cheeked handsome fellow, of about his own age, with a quick determined eye and an impulsive manner, retorted with natural astonishment:  “Not yourself?”

“Not what I supposed myself to be,” said Wilding.

“What, in the name of wonder, did you suppose yourself to be that you are not?” was the rejoinder, delivered with a cheerful frankness, inviting confidence from a more reticent man.  “I may ask without impertinence, now that we are partners.”

“There again!” cried Wilding, leaning back in his chair, with a lost look at the other.  “Partners!  I had no right to come into this business.  It was never meant for me.  My mother never meant it should be mine.  I mean, his mother meant it should be his—­if I mean anything—­or if I am anybody.”

“Come, come,” urged his partner, after a moment’s pause, and taking possession of him with that calm confidence which inspires a strong nature when it honestly desires to aid a weak one.  “Whatever has gone wrong, has gone wrong through no fault of yours, I am very sure.  I was not in this counting-house with you, under the old regime, for three years, to doubt you, Wilding.  We were not younger men than we are, together, for that.  Let me begin our partnership by being a serviceable partner, and setting right whatever is wrong.  Has that letter anything to do with it?”

“Hah!” said Wilding, with his hand to his temple.  “There again!  My head!  I was forgetting the coincidence.  The Swiss postmark.”

“At a second glance I see that the letter is unopened, so it is not very likely to have much to do with the matter,” said Vendale, with comforting composure.  “Is it for you, or for us?”

“For us,” said Wilding.

“Suppose I open it and read it aloud, to get it out of our way?”

“Thank you, thank you.”

“The letter is only from our champagne-making friends, the house at Neuchatel.  ’Dear Sir.  We are in receipt of yours of the 28th ult., informing us that you have taken your Mr. Vendale into partnership, whereon we beg you to receive the assurance of our felicitations.  Permit us to embrace the occasion of specially commanding to you M. Jules Obenreizer.’  Impossible!”

Wilding looked up in quick apprehension, and cried, “Eh?”

“Impossible sort of name,” returned his partner, slightly—­“Obenreizer. ’—­Of specially commanding to you M. Jules Obenreizer, of Soho Square, London (north side), henceforth fully accredited as our agent, and who has already had the honour of making the acquaintance of your Mr. Vendale, in his (said M. Obenreizer’s) native country, Switzerland.’  To be sure! pooh pooh, what have I been thinking of!  I remember now; ’when travelling with his niece.’”