'No,' Jack said,' I leave well alone there. I am not in high favour, and don't go near him till next Monday, when I hope to bring Miss Palmer along with me.' 'Your sweetheart--eh?' Jack blushed to the roots of his hair. 'I can't joke about _her_,' he said. 'I crave pardon,' was the answer. 'Don't be sulky, Jack. I snatch a roll and a draught of water somewhere at a shop near by. Come with me and share the frugal repast.' Then the two young men turned into the road by the river, where the early frequenters of the Spa were returning from drinking the waters in sedan chairs or wrapped up in fur. A band was playing before the door of the pump-room, and the whole scene was at once festive and melancholy. The bun shop was not a dozen yards from the pump-room, and when Jack and his companion turned in to satisfy their hunger several gaily dressed beaux and young gentlewomen, probably relatives of the sick people who were drinking the waters, were laughing and chatting as if there was no such thing as death or sickness or sorrow in the world. The group formed a sharp contrast indeed to the patients leaning on the arms of their attendants, who came forth in melancholy procession from the baths, coughing continuously, and with faces where consumption had too plainly left its mark. On some the bright hectic burned, on others the pallor of the last stages of that fell disease was seen. Thomas Chatterton seemed wholly unconscious of what was passing before him. He threw down his penny for a roll, and drank a glass of water, and then stalked out of the shop, while Jack demolished a pork pie and two rolls, asking for a mug of cider to complete his breakfast. Having settled his account with the smart young woman behind the counter, he hastened to rejoin Chatterton. He had walked away in the direction of St Vincent's Rocks, and Jack, with his long strides, soon overtook him. 'I am ready now,' he said; 'shall I walk back with you as far as Corn Street?' But Chatterton did not answer. He stood like one in a dream, staring with his wonderful eyes at the giant rocks ahead of him, and seemed unconscious of any presence. Something in Chatterton already struck Jack Henderson with a strange awe. Now, as he stood on the bank of the river, where the tide had just turned its dun-coloured waters, rushing swiftly towards the sea, his head bare, his hair tossed back from his capacious brow, his hands clasped and his lips moving, though no sound escaped them, he looked as if he belonged to a different race from the big stalwart youth beside him, whose honest face was all aglow with health and vigour, and who towered a head and shoulders above the slight boyish form at his side. Presently Chatterton spoke, but not to Jack.