let this stand by itself--on its own merits. Shall we, dear little friend?’” Mrs Pryce stayed her narrative for a moment. But my curiosity was merciless. “What did you say?” I asked. “I don’t know. I think I murmured something like ‘Oh, my dear, my dear!’ and then I let go of his hands and turned away to the sea; and when I looked round again, he was gone.” “And that was the end?” “No. The end was lying in the berth above mamma, who was sound asleep, and--well, snoring rather--lying there and feeling the ship slowing down and then stopping, and hearing the mail-boat come alongside, and all the noise and the shouting and the bustle. I knew I could hear nothing--there would be nothing to hear--but I couldn’t help listening. I listened very hard all the time, but of course I heard nothing; and at last--after hours and hours, as it seemed--we began to move again. That was the real end. I knew it had happened then; and so it had. He wasn’t at breakfast. But luckily nobody on the ship--none of the passengers, I mean--found out about it till we got to Liverpool; and as mamma and I weren’t going on to London, it didn’t matter.” “And he got off?” “Yes, he got off--that time.” “I’m afraid this great man had one foible,” I observed. “He was proud of those hands! Well, Cæsar didn’t like getting bald, so I learnt at school.” “I always remember them as they lay in mine,” she said. “His hands and his eyes--that’s what I remember.” “Ever seen him again?” “Of course not.” She sat where she was for a moment longer, then rose. “Shall we go in?” “I think we may as well,” said I. So we went into the billiard-room. They were still playing pool. I made for the whisky-and-soda and mixed myself a tumbler and drank thereof. When I set the tumbler down and turned round to the table Charlie Pryce was engaged in making a shot of critical importance. Everybody was looking at him. His wife was standing at the end of the table and looking at him too. She seemed as much interested in the shot as any of them. But was she? For before he played she raised her eyes and looked across at me with a queer little smile. I couldn’t help returning it. I knew what she was thinking. The billiard-table is a high trial. When Charlie had brought off his shot--which he did triumphantly--his wife came and kissed him. This pleased him very much. He did not recognise the Kiss Penitential, which is, however, a well-ascertained variety. I’m afraid that the magnetic current of immorality which seemed to emanate from Mr James Painter Walsh passed through the sympathetic medium of Mrs Pryce’s memory and infected, in some small degree, my more hardened intellect; for even now I can’t help hoping that Slim-Fingered Jim is being put to some light form of labour. But it’s a difficult business! Even the laundry--a most coveted department, as I am given to understand--would spoil them hopelessly. THE GREY FROCK