His yellow fingers slowly rolled the stump of his cigarette, his ironical lips flickered.  Shelton thought of his own ignorance of life.  He could not recollect ever having gone without a meal.

“I suppose,” he said feebly, “you’ve often starved.”  For, having always been so well fed, the idea of starvation was attractive.

Ferrand smiled.

“Four days is the longest,” said he.  “You won’t believe that story. . . . It was in Paris, and I had lost my money on the race-course.  There was some due from home which didn’t come.  Four days and nights I lived on water.  My clothes were excellent, and I had jewellery; but I never even thought of pawning them.  I suffered most from the notion that people might guess my state.  You don’t recognise me now?”

“How old were you then?” said Shelton.

“Seventeen; it’s curious what one’s like at that age.”

By a flash of insight Shelton saw the well-dressed boy, with sensitive, smooth face, always on the move about the streets of Paris, for fear that people should observe the condition of his stomach.  The story was a valuable commentary.  His thoughts were brusquely interrupted; looking in Ferrand’s face, he saw to his dismay tears rolling down his cheeks.

“I ’ve suffered too much,” he stammered; “what do I care now what becomes of me?”

Shelton was disconcerted; he wished ‘to say something sympathetic,’ but, being an Englishman, could only turn away his eyes.

“Your turn ’s coming,” he said at last.

“Ah! when you’ve lived my life,” broke out his visitor, “nothing ’s any good.  My heart’s in rags.  Find me anything worth keeping, in this menagerie.”

Moved though he was, Shelton wriggled in his chair, a prey to racial instinct, to an ingrained over-tenderness, perhaps, of soul that forbade him from exposing his emotions, and recoiled from the revelation of other people’s.  He could stand it on the stage, he could stand it in a book, but in real life he could not stand it.  When Ferrand had gone off with a portmanteau in each hand, he sat down and told Antonia: 

. . .  The poor chap broke down and sat crying like a child; and instead of making me feel sorry, it turned me into stone.  The more sympathetic I wanted to be, the gruffer I grew.  Is it fear of ridicule, independence, or consideration, for others that prevents one from showing one’s feelings?

He went on to tell her of Ferrand’s starving four days sooner than face a pawnbroker; and, reading the letter over before addressing it, the faces of the three ladies round their snowy cloth arose before him—­Antonia’s face, so fair and calm and wind-fresh; her mother’s face, a little creased by time and weather; the maiden aunt’s somewhat too thin-and they seemed to lean at him, alert and decorous, and the words “That’s rather nice!” rang in his ears.  He went out to post the letter, and buying a five-shilling order enclosed it to the little barber, Carolan, as a reward for delivering his note to Ferrand.  He omitted to send his address with this donation, but whether from delicacy or from caution he could not have said.  Beyond doubt, however, on receiving through Ferrand the following reply, he felt ashamed and pleased.