He was sitting in a London Bridge tram-car.  At its next stoppage there entered a staid old gentleman, with whom he had made the Cityward journey for years; they always nodded to each other.  This morning the grave senior chanced to take a place at his side, and a greeting passed between them.  Christopher felt a sudden impulse, upon which he acted before timidity and other obstacles could interfere.

“Would you tell me, sir,” he whispered, “the c’rect spelling of hyjene; meaning ’ealthiness, you know?”

“Why, what a queer thing!” answered his neighbour with all friendliness.  “I’ve just been reading the word in the paper.  Here is it.”

He folded the sheet conveniently for Christopher’s inspection, and pointed—­

“H-y-g-i-e-n-e.”

Mr. Parish read eagerly, his eyes close to the print, dreading lest he should forget.

“Thanks very much, sir.  I—­a friend of mine told me I was wrong.  I knew I wasn’t—­thanks awfully!”

The white-haired man smiled approval, and returned to his study of the news.  Christopher kept spelling the word in silence, and though the weather was very cold, soon perspired under the dread that he had got a letter wrong.  At St. George’s Church agitation quite overcame him; he hurried from the car, ran into a by-street, and with his pocket pencil wrote on the blank sheet of paper “Hygiene.”  Yes, he had it right.  It looked right.  Now for the nearest letter-box.

But his faith in “Hygiene” had risen to such fervour that he dreaded the delay of postal delivery.  Why not carry the letter himself to the editorial office, which was at no very great distance?  He would, even though it made him late at Swettenham’s.  And he began to run.

Panting, but exultant, he delivered his answer in the national competition, thus gaining a march upon the unhappy multitudes who dwelt far away, and whose resource and energy fell short of his.  Then he looked at the time and was frightened; he would be dreadfully unpunctual at business; Swettenham’s might meet him with stern rebuke.  There was nothing for it, he hailed a cab.

Only in the middle of the morning did he remember that he had in his pocket a love-letter to Polly Sparkes, which he had meant to post early.  He had seen Polly a few days ago, and suspected that she was in some sort of trouble and difficulty, possibly—­though she denied it—­caused by her want of employment.  Polly declared that she had resources which enabled her to take a holiday.  Not very long ago such a statement would have racked Christopher with jealous suspicions; suspicious he was, and a little uneasy, but not to the point of mental torture.  The letter in his pocket declared that he could never cease to love Polly, and that he groaned over the poverty which condemned him to idle hopes; for all that, he thought much less of her just now than of the missing word.  And when, in the luncheon hour, he posted his amorous missive, it was with almost a careless hand.