‘Do let us see you again soon,’ said his hostess, as he took leave of her.  ’Come in at five o’clock on Wednesday, that’s our quiet day; only a few of our real friends.  We shall be in town till Christmas, for certain.’

On the stairs he passed Mr. Felix Dymes, the composer of ‘Margot’.

‘Oh, it’s the easiest thing in the world,’ Mr. Dymes was saying, ’to compose a song that will be popular.  I’ll give you the recipe, and charge nothing You must have a sudden change to the minor, and a waltz refrain —­ that’s all.  Oh yes, there’s money in it.  I know a man who ——­’

Rolfe had never left the house in such a bad temper.

CHAPTER 5

When he awoke next morning, the weather was so gloomy that he seriously resumed his thought of getting away from London.  Why, indeed, did he make London his home, when it would be easy to live in places vastly more interesting, and under a pure sky?  He was a citizen of no city at all, and had less desire than ever to bind himself to a permanent habitation.  All very well so long as he kept among his male friends, at the club and elsewhere; but this ‘society’ played the deuce with him, and he had not the common-sense, the force of resolve, to keep out of it altogether.

Well, he must go to his bank this morning, to draw cash.

It was about twelve o’clock when he stood at the counter, waiting with his cheque.  The man before him talked with the teller.

‘Do you know that the “Britannia” has shut up?’

‘The bank?  No!’

’But it has.  I passed just now, and there were a lot of people standing about.  Closed at half-past eleven, they say.

Harvey had a singular sensation, a tremor at his heart, a flutter of the pulses, a turning cold and hot; then he was quite calm again, and said to himself, ‘Of course.’  For a minute or two the quiet routine of the bank was suspended; the news passed from mouth to mouth; newcomers swelled a gossiping group in front of the counter, and Harvey listened.  The general tone was cynical; there sounded scarcely a note of indignation; no one present seemed to be personally affected by the disaster.  The name of Bennet Frothingham was frequently pronounced, with unflattering comments.

‘Somebody’ll get it hot,’ remarked one of the speakers; and the others laughed.

Rolfe, having transacted his business, walked away.  It struck him that he would go and look at the closed bank, but he did not remember the address; a policeman directed him, and he walked on, the distance not being very great.  At the end of the street in which the building stood, signs of the unusual became observable —­ the outskirts of a crowd, hanging loose in animated talk, as after some exciting occurrence; and before the bank itself was gathered a throng of men, respectability’s silk hats mingling with the felts and caps of lower strata.  Here and