"By the way, Isabel," he said, "as I was coming down the Caledonian Road I met your friend Armitage. He is a good fellow whom I have always liked, so I stopped him and we had a chat. He explained to me that he was attired in his new pedestrian costume, which indeed struck me as almost pre-Adamite in its simplicity. He had been helping some of his friends to move--to shoot the moon, I fancy, would describe the situation. He inquired of me what I was doing, and we got talking on all sorts of scientific and philosophic problems. It is extraordinary what an intellect that man has. Only he lives too much in a world of his own creation; he seems absolutely oblivious of self, and I feel sure his hygiene and vegetarianism are simply the outcome of his desire to free himself from all worldly cares which might impede his absolute devotion to his Cause. He seems to have practically abandoned his practice. As we were wandering on rather aimlessly, I suggested accompanying him home, but he did not appear to jump at the idea, and as I know that it is not considered etiquette amongst you folk to press inquiries as to address and so on, I was going to drop the subject; but Armitage, after a short silence, explained that the fact was he had not exactly got a home to go to. I concluded that he was in for the bother of changing diggings, and made some sympathetic remark to that effect; but he said that was not exactly the case--that, in fact, he had given up having a fixed abode altogether. As you can imagine, Isabel," continued my brother, "this information somewhat staggered me. I knew through you that he had long ago given up his Harley Street establishment and moved into more populous quarters, where I quite supposed him still to be residing. But he calmly went on to explain, as though it were the most natural thing in the world, that he had been in need of a rather considerable sum of money some weeks back for purposes of propaganda, and that, not knowing where else to obtain the money, he had sold up all his belongings and cleared out of his lodgings without paying his rent, 'by way of an example.' All this he explained with the air of a man adducing an unanswerable argument, and as his manner did not admit of remonstrance, I simply asked him what he thought of doing now, which started him off on a long account of the opportunities for propaganda afforded by such establishments as Rowton House, the casual wards, and the Salvation Army Shelters. 'We want to get at the oppressed, to rouse them from their lethargy of ages, to show them that they too have rights, and that it is cowardly and wicked to starve in the midst of plenty; we want to come amongst them, not as preachers and dilettantists, but as workers like themselves, and how can this be done better than by going in their midst and sharing their life?' I could not but feel amazement and admiration at the enthusiasm and sincerity of this man, mingled with sorrow at the