in such a matter.  They had what sufficed to them, and were content with it.  Thinking over this in shame-faced solitude, Warburton felt a glow of proud thankfulness that his mother and sister were so unlike the vulgar average of mankind—­that rapacious multitude, whom nothing animates but a chance of gain, with whom nothing weighs but a commercial argument.  A new tenderness stirred within him, and resolutely he stamped under foot the impulses of self-esteem, of self-indulgence, which made his life hard to bear.

It was with a hard satisfaction that he returned to the shop, and found all going on in the usual way, Allchin grinning a hearty welcome as he weighed out sugar.  Will’s sister talked of the scents of her garden, how they refreshed and inspirited her to him, the odour of the shop—­new-roasted coffee predominated to-day—­had its invigorating effect; it meant money, and money meant life, the peaceful, fruitful life of those dear to him.  He scarcely gave himself time to eat dinner, laid for him, as usual, by Mrs. Allchin, in the sitting-room behind the shop; so eager was he to get on his apron, and return to profitable labour.

At first, he had endured a good deal of physical fatigue.  Standing for so many hours a day wearied him much more than walking would have done, and with bodily exhaustion came at times a lowness of spirits such as he had never felt.  His resource against this misery was conversation with Allchin.  In Allchin he had a henchman whose sturdy optimism and gross common sense were of the utmost value.  The brawny assistant, having speedily found a lodger according to the agreement, saw himself in clover, and determined that, if he could help it, his fortunes should never again suffer eclipse.  He and his wife felt a reasonable gratitude to the founder of their prosperity —­whom, by the bye, they invariably spoke of as “Mr. Jollyman”—­ and did their best to smooth for him the unfamiliar path he was treading.

The success with which Warburton kept his secret, merely proved how solitary most men are amid the crowds of London, and how easy it is for a Londoner to disappear from among his acquaintances whilst continuing to live openly amid the city’s roar.  No one of those who cared enough about him to learn that he had fallen on ill-luck harboured the slightest suspicion of what he was doing; he simply dropped out of sight, except for the two or three who, in a real sense of the word, could be called his friends.  The Pomfrets, whom he went to see at very long intervals, supposed him to have some sort of office employment, and saw nothing in his demeanour to make them anxious about him.  As for Norbert Franks, why, he was very busy, and came not oftener than once a month to his friend’s obscure lodgings; he asked no intrusive questions, and, like the Pomfrets, could only suppose that Warburton had found a clerkship somewhere.  They were not quite on the old terms, for each had gone through a crisis of life, and was not altogether