inhabit as the wife of another man.  Gradually, however, better thoughts returned to him.  After all, what was she but a ‘pert poppet’?  He determined that marriage ’clips a fellow’s wings confoundedly’, and so he set himself to enjoy life after his old fashion.  There was perhaps a little swagger as he threw himself into a chair and addressed the happy lover.  ’I’ll be shot if I didn’t meet Tifto at the corner of the street.’

‘Tifto!’

’Yes, Tifto.  He looked awfully seedy, with a greatcoat buttoned up to his chin, a shabby hat and gloves.’

‘Did he speak to you?’ asked Silverbridge.

’No;—­nor I to him.  He hadn’t time to think whether he would speak or not, and you may be sure I didn’t.’

Nothing further was said about the man, but Silverbridge was uneasy and silent.  When his cigar was finished he got up saying that he should go back to the House.  As he left the club he looked about him as though expecting to see his old friend, and when he had passed through the first street and had got into the Haymarket there he was!  The Major came up to him, touched his hat, asked to be allowed to say a few words.  ‘I don’t think it can do any good,’ said Silverbridge.  The man had not attempted to shake hands with him, or affected familiarity; but seemed to be thoroughly humiliated.  ’I don’t think I can be of any service to you, and therefore I had rather decline.’

‘I don’t want you to be of any service, my Lord.’

‘Then what’s the good?’

‘I have something to say.  May I come to you tomorrow?’

Then Silverbridge allowed himself to make an appointment, and an hour was named at which Tifto might call into Carlton Terrace.  He felt that he almost owed some reparation to the wretched man,—­whom he had unfortunately admitted among his friends, whom he had used, and to whom he had been uncourteous.  Exactly at the hour named the Major was shown into the room.

Dolly had said that he was shabby,—­but the man was altered rather than shabby.  He still had rings on his fingers and studs in his shirt, and a jewelled pin in his cravat,—­but he had shaven off his moustache and the tuft from his chin, and his hair had been cut short, and in spite of his jewellery there was a hang-dog look about him.  ’I’ve got something that I particularly want to say to you, my Lord.’  Silverbridge would not shake hands with him, but could not refrain from offering him a chair.

‘Well;—­you can say it now.’

’Yes;—­but it isn’t so very easy to be said.  There are some things, though you want to say them ever, so you don’t quite know how to do it.’

’You have your choice, Major Tifto.  You can speak or hold your tongue.’

Then there was a pause, during which Silverbridge sat with his hands in his pockets trying to look unconcerned.  ’But if you’ve got it here, and feel it as I do,’—­the poor man as he said this put his hand upon his heart,—­’you can’t sleep in your bed till it’s out.  I did that thing that they said I did.’