“Well, this is the first day in long years that I have felt like a gentleman.” “You were ever a bit susceptible to hallucinations, Davie,” said the other. “There’s a streak of unreality in your nature. Hold there! Not so much soda. I’m sore in need of a bath, I know; but everything at its proper time. Well, go on--how are you accounting for this extraordinary occurrence? You’ve felt all day like a gentleman! It arouses my curiosity.” “Chuck that, Archie, or you’ll hear nothing at all.” “Very well, my boy. I’ll just drink this, then, and go to my bed. It will be welcome, I can tell you.” He drained the tumbler, and made as if to rise. David hurled himself forward with a restraining arm. “Don’t be an ass, old man! I’ve told you once, you mustn’t go near your place to-night,” he urged petulantly. “I’ll give you my bed, and I’ll sleep on the sofa here. It’s all right, I assure you. If you must know, there is somebody sleeping in your room.” The Earl frowned up at his friend. “That was not in the bargain, Mosscrop,” he said, with sharpness. “I don’t like it.” “All I can say is,” retorted David, “that if you’d been in my place you’d have done the same thing--or no, I’m not so sure about that; but under the circumstances it was the only thing _I_ could do. It’s a young lady who is occupying your room, Drumpipes.” “Aha!” cried the Earl, “let’s have her out! I’m not so sleepy as I thought. You can do something in the way of a supper, can’t you?” “No, I can’t, and if I could I wouldn’t. You misapprehend the situation entirely, my friend. This is a poor girl who----” and David went on and told, in brief fashion, the story of the day. “Nine pounds odd your whistle cost you, eh, Davie?” was the listener’s comment, at the conclusion of the narrative. “Well, each man has his own notion of what he wants for his money. It is not mine, I’ll say frankly. And what’s the programme for to-morrow? South Kensington Museum and Hampton Court? The next day you might do the Tower and Epping Forest. Then Westminster Abbey and Richmond--but you’ll come soon to the end of your rope. And sooner, still, I’m thinking, to the end of your banking account.” “That’s my affair,” returned Mosscrop, testily. “I might be said to have some small concern in the matter,” Drumpipes observed, “seeing that I provide furnished lodgings for this beautiful experiment in combined philanthropy and instruction. But you’re drinking nothing.” “No; I had my one glass before you came. I’m taking care of myself these days.” “And high time, too!” admitted the candid friend. “I’ll not say you’ll not be the better for it.” “Well, and don’t you see?” urged Mosscrop, with earnestness, “it’s just the fact of her being there yonder that makes it seem worth while to go to bed sober. It alters my whole conception of myself. It gives me entirely new ideas of what I ought to do. So long as I led this solitary life here there was nothing for me but to drink. But it’s different now.”