“O!” cried the obese gentleman, “why had I not, in those exquisite first days, the courage of my convictions! I desired, and always desired a still more intimate union of souls, and I delayed until delay became fatal. I was not then by many degrees what you see me now. Though constitutionally of a full habit of body, it had remained for the sun of passion, it appeared, to develop in me this extreme fruitiness. For two years now we have corresponded, and I have been swelling all the time; and during all the time, Mr Balm, we have never yet once met.” “Not?” said Gilead. “Well, what then? For all Miss Cox knows, your present proportions may have been your first.” While he spoke, Mr Bundy had finished the last of the buns and cream-cakes. He now struck his breast, and gazed up to heaven with a very full look. “Impossible,” he said; “for--the truth must be confessed--we have latterly exchanged photographs, and the one of myself that I sent her _was taken years ago when I was slim and comely_.” He rose with difficulty, and, feeling in the pocket of his coat which hung near, produced two photographs in a folding frame which he offered to Gilead. “Look, sir,” he said hoarsely, “and consider the measure of retribution exacted for one moment of unthinking vanity. Yet surely--the views we had exchanged had been in themselves so fine, so shapely, had been uttered in so exalted a strain of poetry--the little imposition, amounting to no more than a harmless anachronism, might have been thought natural and excusable? And in succumbing to the temptation I had no thought but to resume, as quickly and as effectually as possible, the contours of the photograph. Alas! in compounding with one’s conscience Destiny always chooses the inconvenient moment for exposure. Judge of my feelings when I tell you that circumstances ruled, all in one instant, that the too-long-delayed meeting between us should be fixed, at last and inevitably, for the middle of next week!” He stood by, quite sagging with dejection, while Gilead, with a profound face, examined the pictures. That of the lady presented a half-length in book-muslin, a little posée, the visage a little spare, but sentimental and interesting. Turning to the other, he found it hard to repress a smile. It had certainly been taken, by inference, years ago. Mr Bundy appeared in it as a comparatively slim gentleman of sedate, but not mature age, with queer clownish hair and a relatively distinguished mien. Gravely he returned the articles to their owner. “You have honoured me, sir,” he said, “with your confidence. My advice, without presumption, is at your service.” “I ask it; I entreat it,” cried Mr Bundy. “Then, sir,” said Gilead, “believe me that vanity never yet cured vanity, but that truth is the universal panacea. You, and presumably the lady, genuinely desire this union?”