“I didn’t expect you this hour,” said Brydon, when he arrived, “I thought it was that brute, the fellow over me, who always forgets his key. I came back to the old place, you see, from a sort of habit, and I thought too it would suit Mag and Con. I went to see them. They taught me a lot, those two girls; they had fine flesh tints, better than the French article as a rule.” “Have they been to see you?” “Yes, Mag’s married, and her figure!—throw your coat there—It’s a sin to see it; women of that order should die young.” “And Connie?” “Connie! she’s grown frowsy, I’m afraid it’s gin! There was a blackguard she ‘walked with’ who levanted with a cook, so it’s censorious to grudge her a drop of comfort. But to think of those pearly tints grown frowsy!” he murmured, “to sell that colouring for a greasy mess of pottage! The folly of man is inscrutable!—Strange, you want desert air, your skin has lost tone!” “Season, my good boy, what else can you expect?” “I wonder if it’s all season,” thought the fellow, and an unaccountable coldness ran down his spine. “I wonder if he’s made a mistake too!” “How are you getting on, as to work?” “I have to speak of something else first, and for reasons best known to myself, I prefer fresh air for it—will you stroll round?” “I should like to see the picture first,” said Strange. One of his old blushes mounted to Brydon’s cheeks. “Wait till afterwards, if you don’t mind,” he said. “Look at the light from that gin-palace on the red head of that child!” he went on, as they turned the corner, “it’s funny what glorious effects one gets from the filthiest combinations! There is no light more bewildering and lovely than the phosphoric blue flicker from a grave-yard.