narrow, squalid street, flanked at each corner by a gorgeous, shining palace of gin, when I noticed a policeman at my side. We entered into conversation, and I learned that he had placed himself near me as a protection. "A famous thieves' quarter this, sir," he said; "I thought you mightn't know." "Thank you for the warning," I replied; "the people are very poor; all the houses seem to be tumbling down." "They belong to a big swell." "Does he not come to inspect them?" The policeman--an intelligent man, evidently with some education--laughed. "He may have seen them once in his lifetime, and that was enough for him. The property is managed by an agent, in the employ of the steward of the estate, who walks through it perhaps once a year." "The rents must be very low." "Not low enough for them that live here. There isn't a house in the street with less than three or four families in it." I pointed to two girls whose ages could not have been more than fifteen or sixteen, each with a baby at her breast, "What becomes of them when they grow old?" "They never grow old," was his significant reply. "Are you a reporter for a newspaper, sir?" "No; I am here merely out of curiosity." "Don't come at night--alone," he said, as he turned away. His question had put an idea into my head which I thought might be carried into effect for the benefit of that half of the world that does not know how the other half lives. I make no excuse for introducing this episode into my story; the sights I saw had an indirect bearing upon my own life. In the evening Barbara and I would meet in our Bloomsbury flat, and go out to dinner, generally to a foreign restaurant, and sometimes afterwards to a theatre or a music hall, the latter being always of Barbara's choosing. I followed in her wake; the least resistance or reluctance to carry out her wishes only brought fresh misery upon me. She continued to tipple, but not in my presence; it seemed to be a principle of her life to do everything in secret. On Sundays she went to church, and professed to be much edified by the discourse. She would pray at home, too. Once when I entered our sitting-room I discovered her on her knees before a couch, her face buried in the cushion. She remained there so long that I put my hand on her shoulder. She did not move. Looking down I found she was asleep, with a vacuous smile on her countenance. I moved to another part of the room, and soon afterwards she staggered to her feet, and stood, reeling to and fro. "Annette!" she called querulously. The woman entered, and supported her to her bedroom. The next day she complained of her heart. "I was very ill yesterday," she said. "I fainted while I was praying. My prayers were for you, John." I did not answer her, and she asked me whether I ever thought of the future world. "It is our duty, my dear," she said. "Life in this is very sad." CHAPTER XII.