It happened that Hilliard himself was just now blind and voiceless with a catarrh.  The news from Dudley by no means solaced him.  He crouched over his fire through the long, black day, tormented with many miseries, and at eventide drank half a bottle of whisky, piping hot, which at least assured him of a night’s sleep.

Just to see what would be the result of his silence, he wrote no reply to this letter.  A fortnight elapsed; he strengthened himself in stubbornness, aided by the catarrh, which many bottles of whisky would not overcome.  When his solitary confinement grew at length insufferable, he sent for Narramore, and had not long to wait before his friend appeared.  Narramore was rosy as ever:  satisfaction with life beamed from his countenance.

“I’ve ordered you in some wine,” he exclaimed genially, sinking into the easy-chair which Hilliard had vacated for him—­an instance of selfishness in small things which did not affect his generosity in greater.  “It isn’t easy to get good port nowadays, but they tell me that this is not injurious.  Hasn’t young Birching been to see you?  No, I suppose he would think it infra dig. to come to this neighbourhood.  There’s a damnable self-conceit in that family:  you must have noticed it, eh?  It comes out very strongly in the girl.  By-the-bye I’ve done with her—­haven’t been there for three weeks, and don’t think I shall go again, unless it’s for the pleasure of saying or doing something that’ll irritate her royal highness.”

“Did you quarrel?”

“Quarrel?  I never quarrel with anyone; it’s bad for one’s nerves.”

“Did you get as far as proposing?”

“Oh, I left her to do that.  Women are making such a row about their rights nowadays, that it’s as well to show you grant them perfect equality.  I gave her every chance of saying something definite.  I maintain that she trifled with my affections.  She asked me what my views in life were.  Ah, thought I, now it’s coming; and I answered modestly that everything depended on circumstances.  I might have said it depended on the demand for brass bedsteads; but perhaps that would have verged on indelicacy—­you know that I am delicacy personified.  ‘I thought,’ said Miss Birching, ’that a man of any energy made his own circumstances?’ ‘Energy!’ I shouted.  ’Do you look for energy in me?  It’s the greatest compliment anyone ever paid me.’  At that she seemed desperately annoyed, and wouldn’t pursue the subject.  That’s how it always was, just when the conversation grew interesting.”

“I’m sorry to see you so cut up about it,” remarked Hilliard.

“None of your irony, old fellow.  Well, the truth is, I’ve seen someone I like better.”

“Not surprised.”

“It’s a queer story; I’ll tell it you some day, if it comes to anything.  I’m not at all sure that it will, as there seems to be a sort of lurking danger that I may make a damned fool of myself.”