“How is dear Lady Malkinshaw?” I asked, when my grateful emotions had subsided.

Mr. Batterbury shook his head mournfully.  “I regret to say, not quite so well as her friends could wish,” he answered.  “The last time I had the pleasure of seeing her ladyship, she looked so yellow that if we had been in Jamaica I should have said it was a case of death in twelve hours.  I respectfully endeavored to impress upon her ladyship the necessity of keeping the functions of the liver active by daily walking exercise; time, distance, and pace being regulated with proper regard to her age—­you understand me?—­of course, with proper regard to her age.”

“You could not possibly have given her better advice,” I said.  “When I saw her, as long as two years ago, Lady Malkinshaw’s favorite delusion was that she was the most active woman of seventy-five in all England.  She used to tumble downstairs two or three times a week, then, because she never would allow any one to help her; and could not be brought to believe that she was as blind as a mole, and as rickety on her legs as a child of a year old.  Now you have encouraged her to take to walking, she will be more obstinate than ever, and is sure to tumble down daily, out of doors as well as in.  Not even the celebrated Malkinshaw toughness can last out more than a few weeks of that practice.  Considering the present shattered condition of my constitution, you couldn’t have given her better advice—­upon my word of honor, you couldn’t have given her better advice!”

“I am afraid,” said Mr. Batterbury, with a power of face I envied; “I am afraid, my dear Frank (let me call you Frank), that I don’t quite apprehend your meaning:  and we have unfortunately no time to enter into explanations.  Five miles here by a roundabout way is only half my daily allowance of walking exercise; five miles back by a roundabout way remain to be now accomplished.  So glad to see you at liberty again!  Mind you let us know where you settle, and take care of yourself; and do recognize the importance to the whole animal economy of daily walking exercise—­do now!  Did I give you Annabella’s love?  She’s so well.  Good-by.”

Away went Mr. Batterbury to finish his walk for the sake of his health, and away went I to visit my publisher for the sake of my pocket.

An unexpected disappointment awaited me.  My “Scenes of Modern Prison Life” had not sold so well as had been anticipated, and my publisher was gruffly disinclined to speculate in any future works done in the same style.  During the time of my imprisonment, a new caricaturist had started, with a manner of his own; he had already formed a new school, and the fickle public were all running together after him and his disciples.  I said to myself:  “This scene in the drama of your life, my friend, has closed in; you must enter on another, or drop the curtain at once.”  Of course I entered on another.

Taking leave of my publisher, I went to consult an artist-friend on my future prospects.  I supposed myself to be merely on my way to a change of profession.  As destiny ordered it, I was also on my way to the woman who was not only to be the object of my first love, but the innocent cause of the great disaster of my life.