As Walter walked along the Strand that morning he meditated on many ways of improving his condition and at the same time of not overworking himself. He found that it told on him considerably to be down late at the office three nights a week, writing his article, and then, with the excitement of work still upon him, to go home tired and hungry in the small hours of the morning. It was bad for Florence, too, for she generally sat up for him, declaring that to taste his supper and to have a little chat with him did her good and made her heart light. Sometimes he thought he would take up a different line altogether (he knew his editor would aid and abet him in anything for his good) and try living in the country, running up to town every day if necessary. But this would never do; it would only make him restive. His position was not yet strong enough to admit of his taking things so easily. It was important to him to live among men of knowledge and influence, to be in the whirl and twirl of things, and London was essentially the bull’s-eye, not only of wealth and commerce, but of most other things with which men of all degrees concern themselves. And when he got to this point he came to the conclusion that he was thinking too much about himself. After all, he only wanted a month’s rest or a couple of months’ change of air; a friendly talk such as he might possibly get in the next quarter of an hour would probably bring about one or the other and in a far better form than he himself could devise it. Mr. Fisher was a man of infinite resource, not merely in regard to his paper, but for himself and his friends too, when they consulted him about their personal affairs. It was one of his characteristics that he liked being consulted. Walter felt that the best thing would be to get away alone with Florence, to some place where the climate had no cause to be ashamed of itself: he wanted to be sated with sunshine. It was no good going alone, and no matter how pleasant a friend went with him, a time always came when he wanted to go by one route and the friend by another. “Now, your wife,” he thought, “not only particularly longs to go by your route, but thinks you a genius for finding it out.” He stopped for a moment to look at a bookshop; there was a box of second-hand books outside; he hesitated, but remembered that he had no time to stay. As he turned away some one touched him on the arm, and a voice said doubtfully— “Will you speak to me, Walter?” He looked up and instantly held out his hand with a smile. “Why, it’s Wimple,” he said; “how are you, old fellow? Of course I’ll speak to you. How are you?”