‘But you are out of your way for Lincoln’s Inn Fields,’ said Stanbury.

‘I have to call at Twining’s.  And where are you going?’

’I have been three times round St. James’s Park to collect my thoughts,’ said Stanbury, ’and now I’m on my way to the Daily R., 250, Fleet Street.  It is my custom of an afternoon.  I am prepared to instruct the British public of tomorrow on any subject, as per order, from the downfall of a European compact to the price of a London mutton chop.’

‘I suppose there is nothing more to be said about it,’ said Trevelyan, after a pause.

’Not another word.  How should there be?  Aunt Jemima has already drawn tight the purse strings, and it would soon be the casual ward in earnest if it were not for the Daily R. God bless the Daily R. Only think what a thing it is to have all subjects open to one, from the destinies of France to the profit proper to a butcher.’

‘If you like it!’

’I do like it.  It may not be altogether honest.  I don’t know what is.  But it’s a deal honester than defending thieves and bamboozling juries.  How is your wife?’

‘She’s pretty well, thank you.’

Stanbury knew at once from the tone of his friend’s voice that there was something wrong.

‘And Louis the less?’ he said, asking after Trevelyan’s child.  ‘He’s all right.’

’And Miss Rowley?  When one begins one’s inquiries one is bound to go through the whole family.’

‘Miss Rowley is pretty well,’ said Trevelyan.

Previously to this, Trevelyan when speaking of his sister-in-law to Stanbury, had always called her Nora, and had been wont to speak of her as though she were almost as much the friend of one of them as of the other.  The change of tone on this occasion was in truth occasioned by the sadness of the man’s thoughts in reference to his wife, but Stanbury attributed it to another cause.  ’He need not be afraid of me,’ he said to himself, ’and at least he should not show me that he is.’  Then they parted, Trevelyan going into Twining’s bank, and Stanbury passing on towards the office of the Daily R.

Stanbury had in truth been altogether mistaken as to the state of his friend’s mind on that morning.  Trevelyan, although he had, according to his custom, put in a word in condemnation of the newspaper line of life, was at the moment thinking whether he would not tell all his trouble to Hugh Stanbury.  He knew that he should not find anywhere, not even in Mr Bideawhile, a more friendly or more trustworthy listener.  When Nora Rowley’s name had been mentioned, he had not thought of her.  He had simply repeated the name with the usual answer.  He was at the moment cautioning himself against a confidence which after all might not be necessary, and which on this occasion was not made.  When one is in trouble it is a great ease to tell one’s trouble to a friend; but then one should always wash one’s dirty linen at home.  The latter consideration prevailed, and Trevelyan allowed his friend to go on without burdening him with the story of that domestic quarrel.  Nor did he on that occasion tell it to Mr Bideawhile; for Mr Bideawhile was not found at his chambers.