One evening, finding himself unexpectedly disengaged, he asked Vyse to dine; it had occurred to him that, in the course of an after-dinner chat, he might delicately hint his feeling that the work he had offered his friend was unworthy so accomplished a hand.

Vyse surprised him by a momentary hesitation.  “I may not have time to dress.”

Betton stared.  “What’s the odds?  We’ll dine here—­and as late as you like.”

Vyse thanked him, and appeared, punctually at eight, in all the shabbiness of his daily wear.  He looked paler and more shyly truculent than usual, and Betton, from the height of his florid stature, said to himself, with the sudden professional instinct for “type”:  “He might be an agent of something—­a chap who carries deadly secrets.”

Vyse, it was to appear, did carry a deadly secret; but one less perilous to society than to himself.  He was simply poor—­inexcusably, irremediably poor.  Everything failed him, had always failed him:  whatever he put his hand to went to bits.

This was the confession that, reluctantly, yet with a kind of white-lipped bravado, he flung at Betton in answer to the latter’s tentative suggestion that, really, the letter-answering job wasn’t worth bothering him with—­a thing that any type-writer could do.

“If you mean you’re paying me more than it’s worth, I’ll take less,” Vyse rushed out after a pause.

“Oh, my dear fellow—­” Betton protested, flushing.

“What do you mean, then?  Don’t I answer the letters as you want them answered?”

Betton anxiously stroked his silken ankle.  “You do it beautifully, too beautifully.  I mean what I say:  the work’s not worthy of you.  I’m ashamed to ask you—­”

“Oh, hang shame,” Vyse interrupted.  “Do you know why I said I shouldn’t have time to dress to-night?  Because I haven’t any evening clothes.  As a matter of fact, I haven’t much but the clothes I stand in.  One thing after another’s gone against me; all the infernal ingenuities of chance.  It’s been a slow Chinese torture, the kind where they keep you alive to have more fun killing you.”  He straightened himself with a sudden blush.  “Oh, I’m all right now—­getting on capitally.  But I’m still walking rather a narrow plank; and if I do your work well enough—­if I take your idea—­”

Betton stared into the fire without answering.  He knew next to nothing of Vyse’s history, of the mischance or mis-management that had brought him, with his brains and his training, to so unlikely a pass.  But a pang of compunction shot through him as he remembered the manuscript of “The Lifted Lamp” gathering dust on his table for half a year.

“Not that it would have made any earthly difference—­since he’s evidently never been able to get the thing published.”  But this reflection did not wholly console Betton, and he found it impossible, at the moment, to tell Vyse that his services were not needed.