“I am not romancing,” said the other impressively. “I am simply giving you the downright, honest, blunt, straightforward truth when I tell you that he wrote this morning asking me for two pounds on the plea that he had become married at the beginning of the week to a publican’s daughter at Oldham.” “Did you send it?” asked Erb, with great cheerfulness. “I wrote and I told him that if, as he said, he had in the past lent me sums amounting in the aggregate to this total, why I could only say that the fact had escaped my memory. I would, however, take an opportunity of looking through my memoranda in order to see whether I had made any record of such transactions. Could I say anything fairer?” “And he’s actually married?” “There is a piece of what is termed wedding cake at home, awaiting my daughter’s return.” “Will it—will it upset her do you think?” asked Erb nervously. “I shall warn her not to eat it,” said the Professor. Erb did an extraordinary thing. Delighted by the news which the Professor had brought he set out upon a walk down through Camberwell into Surrey, a walk that he determined should last until he was tired out, a walk that had some vague advantage of going in the direction of Worthing. He was not used to heroic physical exercise, but on this unique occasion there seemed nothing else to do that would have been appropriate, and he mingled with the evening tide of people receding from London, beating it easily, and finally arriving beyond Dulwich, and well out into the country, where the rare gas lamps were being lighted and a mist came like a decorous veil and protected the face of the roadway modestly. Easier to think here than in the hurry and turmoil and clatter of town. After all, what did public life matter, what did the cause of labour or anything else matter so long as one was personally happy? That had ever been the aim of wise men; in future it should be his. There could always come the superadded amusement of playing with lesser minds, directing them and making them perform, exercising control in the manner of the unseen director of a Punch and Judy show. Erb argued this in a quiet road, with gesture and excitement; a sparrow hopped along for some distance with him in a companionable way, twittering approval, and hinting that if there should be such a thing in the corner of a pocket as a few bread crumbs— It was late when Erb returned by train from Croydon to South Bermondsey station, and in the nearly empty rooms of Page’s Walk he found Payne awaiting him. Payne, with something more than his usual gravity of countenance, seated on the one remaining chair and smoking an empty pipe in a desolate, absent-minded way. “Well,” said Payne lugubriously, “you’ve done for yourself now.” “That so,” remarked Erb. “What’s the latest?”