I rushed like mad out into the hall. I wanted to get the opportunity of thinking as hard and as swiftly as possible. There was no time to lose; the station cab stood outside the door, waiting for him I went up, three stairs at a time, and opened the door of my room; it had been used as a temporary cloak-room, and jackets and hats were littered all over the place. As I threw these about—everything had been moved by the servants with some idea of making elaborate preparations—it struck me it was not unlike a nightmare; one of those nightmares where you are in a most terrific hurry, and everything slips away and eludes you. I could have cried with annoyance at the thought that Mr. Cartwright was now preparing to leave, asking for me, perhaps, and certainly wondering when and how he was to receive his fee for making the special visit from town. In my excitement I took the pillow and threw it into the air; underneath I found my money-box, and some other articles which had been shifted from the dressing-table. I seized one of my dumb-bells, smashed the box, counted out the money with trembling fingers. “Four and three,” I said to myself. “I shall give him four shillings, and tell him I’ll send the rest on.” I slid down two flights. As I neared the landing above the hall I could hear that music had started afresh and dancing had recommenced. I was engaged to a rather sensible girl—already referred to—for the polka, and she would be looking out for me; but for the moment I was too full of troubles of my own to consider those of other people. The front door was open, and my mother was waving her hand. “Mr. Cartwright!” I called out, running past her. “Mr. Cartwright! Oh, do let me speak to you for a minute.” “Can’t stop, old boy,” he said from the cab. He seemed rather quiet. “But I must speak to you. Mother, may I go down to the station with him? Oh, you are a good sort,” as she nodded her consent. I jumped in, and the cab started. I felt so thankful when I saw in his hand an envelope with some pieces of gold, and I felt proud of her. I might have guessed mother would know how to do the right thing. “Little man!” He was looking at a slip of paper with some pencilled words which the envelope also contained. “Do you ever take advice, I wonder?” “Do you, Mr. Cartwright?” “I find it easier to give. People have been filling me up with it ever since I was about your age, and some of it has been good, but I have always done exactly as I pleased.” “I suppose that’s the best plan.” “No!” he replied. “It has some advantages, but not many.” “But aren’t you”—I scarcely knew how to phrase it—“aren’t you exactly what you want to be, Mr. Cartwright? You’re so good-humoured and jolly.” He gave a gasp and looked at the window.