"And I've had a good look at you, too," she continued. "Do you know, Mr. Austin, you're really rather handsome?" "I daresay I look my best by lamplight," I suggested, smiling. "No, really I think you are--in the thin ascetic style. I like that--anyhow for a change. Well, I wanted a word with you, so I waited till Chat went to bed, and then slipped down." It was on the tip of my tongue to observe that it was rather late; but a smile on Jenny's lips somehow informed me that she expected just such an objection. So I said nothing. "Chat and I are going to London to-morrow--to shop. Perhaps we may go on to Paris. I thought you might like to say good-by." "That's very kind of you. I'm glad we're not to part in--well, as we parted this afternoon." "If you regretted that, you might have done something to prevent it. Light your pipe again; you'll be able to think better--and I want you to think a little." I obeyed her direction, she sitting for the moment silent. I came and stood opposite to her, leaning my elbow on the mantelpiece. "When I first knew Mr. Powers, I was sixteen, and I'd been with the Smalls since I was eleven. You didn't get very discriminating, living with the Smalls. I met him at a subscription dance: I didn't know anything about his wife. He was clerk to an architect, or surveyor, or something of that sort. I met him a good many times afterwards--for walks. He was good-looking in his way, and he said he was in love with me. I fell in love with him and, when I couldn't get away to meet him, I wrote letters. Then I heard about the wife--and I wrote more letters. You know the sort--very miserable, and, I suppose, very silly--that I didn't know what to do, only the world was over for me--and so on. You can imagine the sort of letter. And I saw him--once or twice. He told me that he was in great trouble; he'd been racing and playing cards and couldn't pay; he'd be shown up, and lose his place--and what would become of his wife and child? I flared up and said that I was the last person who was likely to care about his wife and child. Then he suggested that I should get money from my father--he knew all about my father--by saying that I was in some trouble. I told him I couldn't possibly; I was never allowed to write and should only get an answer from a lawyer if I did--and certainly no money. He persisted--and I persisted. He threatened vaguely what he could do. I told him to do as he liked--that I'd done with him for good. I never wrote again--and I never saw him till to-day." "When you asked him to dinner!"