"Hallo! Good man!" he cried. "You're just in time--I was just funking carving--you'd better be getting your hand in for when you're a family man!... Bring another plate, Jane.... Well, how's things?" It was then that the thing happened that still has power to bring the blood to my cheeks. It was exquisitely cruel in the moment of its coming. "Oh, so-so," I replied carelessly.... "But I've just this minute swallowed my dinner, thanks. You go ahead. I'll watch you." "Oh, rubbish!" he replied, in a tone that hardened me. "I'll lay you haven't had so much but you can pick a bit of Surrey fowl." I damned the thickness of his hide, but swallowed my choler. "Really, thanks," I said, turning away to look at a print on the wall that I had seen a hundred times before. Jane hesitated. It was a long way up from the kitchen, and the old bell-pull of red rope by his fireplace didn't always ring. "Shall I bring the other plate, Mr Merridew?" she asked. "Yes--bring it--he'll change his mind!" But in my hellish pride I had now no intention whatever of changing my mind. Twice again he pressed me, and twice I declined, the second time curtly; and he fell to himself, while I sat in a chair and watched him. "Oh, by the way," he said suddenly, with his mouth full of food, "I'm going to work here to-night.... Sure you won't have some pudding?" I rose. "Oh, well, if you're not coming I'll sheer off; why didn't you say so? Enjoy your week-end?" "Oh, first rate. But, dash it all, don't be in such a hurry--you're far too early yet." "Oh, I've just remembered something," I said, "See you again soon." And I waved my hand and left. I did not go to the class either that night. I was raging again, and trying to protect that young fool from the injury of my savage thoughts. I failed completely. Not even the thought that my passionate resentment was a force to be confined as it were in a boiler, and only to be allowed to escape by the way that would prove effective, restrained me from clenching my fists and gritting my teeth as I recalled the image of his pretty and ignorant and conceited face; and I am afraid I "let go" utterly. I walked by way of Chancery Lane and Bouverie Street to the Embankment; I crossed Blackfriars Bridge, and after that I don't quite know where I went, trying to forget my hunger, and trying to shake off my hideous grudge against the world that threatened to crash over the head of the egotistical whipper-snapper I had left. I have related this at some length because it was the first time, but not the last, that that devil of sensitiveness took me in quite that way. VIII