Holdsworth bowed, and so did the other, with a kind of spasmodic grace--a good bow spoiled by nervousness. He had dressed himself with care; he was cleanly shaved; his hair was carefully brushed; his shirt collars were white; and his boots shone. Holdsworth had never before seen him so close. The light from the window fell upon his face and showed the cobweb of veins in his eyes, the puffy whiteness of his skin, the blueness of his lips, the tinge of gleaming purple about his nostrils, and all the other signals which the alcoholic fiend stamps upon the countenances of his votaries, so that, let them go where they will, they may be known and loathed by honest men as his adopted children. But he was sober now; as sober as a man can be who has drunk but a glass of ale since he left his bed, but whose flesh is soaked with the abomination of the taverns, and whose brain can never be steady for the fumes that rise incessantly into it. “Mr. Hampden, I believe?” he exclaimed in a creamy voice, standing near the door, which Mrs. Parrot had shut behind him, and twisting his hat in his hands. “Yes; pray be seated,” replied Holdsworth, looking at him steadily, certain now that the object of this visit was not what he had imagined it. Mr. Conway sat down, and put his hat on the floor. His embarrassment, when his business should come to be known, might show a possibility of redemption, or at least satisfy us that most of the bad qualities he was accredited with might have been absorbed into his nature with the drink he swallowed. No thoroughly bad man could feel the nervousness that disturbed him. “I have called, Mr. Hampden, to thank you, for your kindness to my little step-daughter. Indeed, sir, both my wife and myself thoroughly appreciate your goodness. Believe us, we do.” “Pray do not trouble to thank me. She is a sweet child, and it makes me happy to have her,” answered Holdsworth, now at his ease, and studying his visitor with curiosity and surprise. “Ah! she is indeed a sweet child. A perfect treasure to her mother, and quite a little sunbeam in my house--darkened, I regret to say, by misfortunes beyond my control to repair.” “I am sorry to hear that.” “I never can sufficiently deplore having adopted so ungrateful a vocation as dentistry. I was born to better things, Mr. Hampden. My father had an influential position under Government; but he died in poverty, and I was apprenticed by an uncle ... pray forgive me. These matters cannot interest you. Privations press heavily upon a man at my time of life. Dentistry seems to fail me; and yet, when I look around, I find no other calling which I am qualified to espouse.” He sighed, and pulled out a pocket-handkerchief, with which he wiped his mouth. Holdsworth was silent.