THE mysterious Mr. P. was revealed to the eye of his fellow-lodger as a man of medium height, well built, almost soldierly in the carriage of his body, with a pale, colourless face, clean shaven as an actor's, his hair, though plentiful, fast turning grey. The velvet jacket which he wore, together with the studied negligence of his necktie, were distinctly marks of affectation, if Henry had an eye for such, and it is more than possible he had. Still, the general effect of Mr. P.'s appearance must have been generally favourable to the young man who rose to greet him as he entered the room. It went some way to support the romantic picture of him which Henry had sketched out in his mind, and nothing is more flattering to our self-esteem than thus to find ourselves anticipating Nature. 'Tis easily done, however, given the fact that the unknown scrapes a fiddle. Yet why should musicians proclaim their profession in their person as plainly as any stableboy his? The amateur is even more professional in his appearance than the professional himself. As Mr. P. closed the door and advanced some steps to shake hands with the occupant of the room, his pale features were lit up by a smile that put Henry at his ease forthwith, for there had been a momentary revolt of shyness in the young man's mind after expressing his desire to meet the gentleman from upstairs. It was a worn man of the world and a very provincial young man who shook hands. "You will pardon this late and informal visit, Mr. Charles," said Mr. Puddephatt, "but it has seemed so unneighbourly never to have met you before, and you are so much engaged, that I determined to take the first opportunity of passing an hour with you." "I am indeed happy to meet you." "The fact that you are a man of letters interests me greatly, for I too have dabbled a little with the pen, and Laysford is a dull place for the literary man, as everybody seems bent on money-grubbing." "My own occupation is, I fear, not unsuited to an industrial town. Pray sit down and make yourself comfortable." "Still, journalism is at least a province of literature," said the visitor, smiling. He helped himself to a cigarette, and took the easy-chair Henry had moved forward to the fire. "A sphere of influence, perhaps, if not quite a province," Henry replied, catching something of Mr. P.'s rather studied conversational manner, as he seated himself and toyed with his cigarette. "I am beginning to think that literature and journalism have less in common than I once supposed. Have you ever engaged in journalism?" "Only slightly. I have done a little in the reviews, chiefly on musical subjects. My efforts have been in the direction of fiction."