One was empty, the present purse, and he understood... the dress purse, of course, a little silver only... the rest had gone that he might have something beautiful.... He knew that it must be done sooner or later, and to-day was best, for his heart could be no sorer.... Yes, here they were, the ungiven gifts. For every person, from himself to the nurse; all wrapped in soft white paper and ready in good time.... She used to arrange everything on Christmas Eve... this year he had intended to stay at Cannes,... there would just have been Bertie and his mother, now... But he must open it--an inkstand for his study in solid brass, with pens and other things complete--he noted every detail as if to estimate its value. It came back to him how she had cunningly questioned him about his needs before he left for Cannes, till he grew impatient. “Don't bother me about ink-bottles,” Yes, the very words, and others... the secret writing of memory came out in this fire of sorrow. “Why won't women understand that a man can't answer questions about trifles when he has work on hand?” He could swear to the words, and he knew how Maud looked, although he did not see. “Don't go away; you promised that you would sit beside me when I worked--hinder me? I suppose you are bidding for a kiss; you know the sight of your face inspires me.”... That was ten years ago... he might have borne with her presence a little longer.... She never would come again... he would have no interruptions of that kind.... Her gloves, sixes--what a perfect hand it was (smoothes out the glove). His memory brings up a dinner table. Mrs. Chatterby gives her opinion on Meredith's last novel, and helps herself to salt--he sees a disgusting hand, with stumpy fingers, and, for impudence, a street arab of a thumb. A vulgar little woman through and through, and yet because she picked up scraps from the monthlies, and had the trick of catch-words, people paid her court And he had sometimes thought, but he knew better to-day... of all things in the world a glove is the surest symbol. Mended, too, very neatly... that he might have his hansoms. It was the last thing he ever could have imagined, and yet it must be a diary--Maud's diary! Turns over the leaves, and catches that woman's name against whom he has suddenly taken a violent dislike. “January 25. Was at Mrs. Chatterby's--how strange one does not say anything of her husband--yet he is the nicer of the two--and I think it will be better not to go again to dinner. One can always make some excuse that will not be quite untrue. “'The dinner is in honour of Mr. Fynical, who is leaving his College and coming to live in London, to do literary work.' as Mrs. Chatterby has been explaining for weeks, 'and to give tone to the weeklies.'