“I suppose,” said Shelton, “you find a great deal of chaff?”

The little man smiled a suffering smile.  The twang of his toneless voice sounded a trifle shriller.

“I was obliged to refuse a man to-day—­a man and a woman, quite young people, with three small children.  He was ill and out of work; but on inquiry we found that they were not man and wife.”

There was a slight pause; the little man’s eyes were fastened on his nails, and, with an appearance of enjoyment, he began to bite them.  Shelton’s face had grown a trifle red.

“And what becomes of the woman and the children in a case like that?” he said.

The little man’s eyes began to smoulder.

“We make a point of not encouraging sin, of course.  Excuse me a minute; I see they’ve finished bagatelle.”

He hurried off, and in a moment the clack of bagatelle began again.  He himself was playing with a cold and spurious energy, running after the balls and exhorting the other players, upon whom a wooden acquiescence seemed to fall.

Shelton crossed the room, and went up to young Curly.  He was sitting on a bench, smiling to himself his private smiles.

“Are you staying here much longer?” Shelton asked.

Young Curly rose with nervous haste.

“I ’m afraid,” he said, “there ’s nobody very interesting here to-night.”

“Oh, not at all!” said Shelton; “on the contrary.  Only I ’ve had a rather tiring day, and somehow I don’t feel up to the standard here.”

His new acquaintance smiled.

“Oh, really! do you think—­that is—­”

But he had not time to finish before the clack of bagatelle balls ceased, and the voice of the little deep-eyed man was heard saying:  “Anybody who wants a book will put his name down.  There will be the usual prayer-meeting on Wednesday next.  Will you all go quietly?  I am going to turn the lights out.”

One gas-jet vanished, and the remaining jet flared suddenly.  By its harder glare the wooden room looked harder too, and disenchanting.  The figures of its occupants began filing through the door.  The little man was left in the centre of the room, his deep eyes smouldering upon the backs of the retreating members, his thumb and finger raised to the turncock of the metre.

“Do you know this part?” asked young Curly as they emerged into the street.  “It ’s really jolly; one of the darkest bits in London—­it is really.  If you care, I can take you through an awfully dangerous place where the police never go.”  He seemed so anxious for the honour that Shelton was loath to disappoint him.  “I come here pretty often,” he went on, as they ascended a sort of alley rambling darkly between a wall and row of houses.

“Why?” asked Shelton; “it does n’t smell too nice.”

The young man threw up his nose and sniffed, as if eager to add any new scent that might be about to his knowledge of life.