“A union on her part,” said the sufferer miserably, “with the subject of the photograph? I believe I can answer for her so far. As for myself, should I take such steps otherwise to make it possible? You comprehend now, Mr Balm, my position; my desperate essay, on my doctor’s advice, to abate--at a moment’s notice, so to speak--my figure; the torture of conscience which drove me to seek, in the distraction of cheerful companionship, some forgetfulness of the purpose with which I wrought, and the deceit which had necessitated it.” “You might, with as much hope of success,” said Gilead, “seek to reduce an egg by boiling.” He spoke with a certain sternness. “No, Mr Bundy,” he said, “the proportions of the picture will not be yours within a week. How can you expect it when--I must speak plainly--you pamper your stomach with one hand while you reduce it with the other?” Mr Bundy, with a self-conscious look, glanced down at the luncheon-basket. “I am afraid,” he murmured, “that you have made a poor meal.” “I have had one sandwich, sir,” answered Gilead: “and I could wish, for your sake, that I had had all. But what can it matter to you? The spiritual communion for which you crave is hardly concerned with things of the flesh.” “It must suffer, its lustre must sink diminished in the shadow of the moral falsehood,” cried Mr Bundy, abashed and despairing. “Then, sir,” said Gilead, “apply truth for a remedy. It is the only one. Come, be a man, Mr Bundy, and own up and ask absolution.” “I dare not,” answered the obese gentleman, almost weeping--“I dare not. Her sensitiveness--the shock--my tongue-tied confusion! She does not even know my vocation. Sooner or later she would have to, and then--the double disillusionment!” “I would not wrong her,” said Gilead; “but wealth, with the best of us, is a flattering recommendation.” The other looked at him meltingly. “Ah!” he sighed, “if I could only find one, cultured, diplomatic, who would consent to be my deputy for the truth!” Gilead drew himself up. “You mean me,” he said. “I know you represent it,” faltered Mr Bundy--and stopped, casting down his eyes. The young man considered a little. “Very well, sir,” he said suddenly. “I owe you a certain reparation. I will undertake this delicate business, on condition that you give me a note of introduction to the lady.” The obese gentleman laughed with glee. “Come,” he said--“come home with me at once, and I will write it.” THE QUEST OF THE OBESE GENTLEMAN (_continued_)