“What are you thinking of?” asked Judith.

“I was thinking how the ’Dans un grenier qu’on est bien a vingt ans’ principle would have worked in my own case,” I answered truthfully, for the above reflections had been Passing through my mind.

Judith laughed.

“You in a garret?  Why, you haven’t got a temperament!”

I suppose I haven’t.  It never occurred to me before.  Beranger omitted that from his list of attendant compensations.

“That’s the difference between us,” she added, after a pause.  “I have a temperament and you haven’t.”

“I hope you find it a great comfort.”

“It is ten times more uncomfortable than a conscience.  It is the bane of one’s existence.”

“Why be so proud of having it?”

“You wouldn’t understand if I told you,” said Judith.

I rose and walked to the window and gazed meditatively at the rain which swept the uninspiring little street.  Judith lives in Tottenham Mansions, in the purlieus of the Tottenham Court Road.  The ground floor of the building is a public-house, and on summer evenings one can sit by the open windows, and breathe in the health-giving fumes of beer and whisky, and listen to the sweet, tuneless strains of itinerant musicians.  When my new fortunes enabled me to give the dear woman just the little help that allowed her to move into a more commodious flat, she had the many mansions of London to choose from.  Why she insisted on this abominable locality I could never understand.  It isn’t as if the flat were particularly cheap; indeed the fact of its being situated over a public-house seems to enhance the rent.  She said she liked the shape of the knocker and the pattern of the bathroom taps.  I dimly perceive that it must have had something to do with the temperament.

“It always seems to rain when we propose an outing together.  This is the fourth time since Easter,” I remarked.

We had planned a sedate country jaunt, but as the day was pouring wet we remained at home.

“Perhaps this is the way the bon Dieu has of expressing his disapproval of us,” said Judith.

“Why should he disapprove?” I asked.

A shrug of her shoulders ended in a shiver.

“I am chilled through.”

“My dear girl,” I cried, “why on earth haven’t you lit the fire?”

“The last time I lit it you said the room was stuffy.”

“But then it was beautiful blazing sunshine, you illogical woman,” I exclaimed, searching my pockets for a match-box.

I struck a match.  To apply it to the fire I had to kneel by her chair.  She stretched out her hand—­she has delicate white hands with slender fingers—­and lightly touched my head.

“How long have we known each other?” she asked.

“About eight years.”

“And how long shall we go on?”

“As long as you like,” said I, intent on the fire.