“I had no intention of intruding here,” said Ferrand; “I hoped to see you in the neighbourhood, but I arrive exhausted with fatigue. I've eaten nothing since yesterday at noon, and walked thirty miles.” He shrugged his shoulders. “You see, I had no time to lose before assuring myself whether you were here or not.” “Of course--” began Shelton, but again he stopped. “I should very much like,” the young foreigner went on, “for one of your good legislators to find himself in these country villages with a penny in his pocket. In other countries bakers are obliged to sell you an equivalent of bread for a penny; here they won't sell you as much as a crust under twopence. You don't encourage poverty.” “What is your idea now?” asked Shelton, trying to gain time. “As I told you,” replied Ferrand, “there 's nothing to be done at Folkestone, though I should have stayed there if I had had the money to defray certain expenses”; and again he seemed to reproach his patron with the omission of that cheque. “They say things will certainly be better at the end of the month. Now that I know English well, I thought perhaps I could procure a situation for teaching languages.” “I see,” said Shelton. As a fact, however, he was far from seeing; he literally did not know what to do. It seemed so brutal to give Ferrand money and ask him to clear out; besides, he chanced to have none in his pocket. “It needs philosophy to support what I 've gone through this week,” said Ferrand, shrugging his shoulders. “On Wednesday last, when I received your letter, I had just eighteen-pence, and at once I made a resolution to come and see you; on that sum I 've done the journey. My strength is nearly at an end.” Shelton stroked his chin. “Well,” he had just begun, “we must think it over,” when by Ferrand's face he saw that some one had come in. He turned, and saw Antonia in the doorway. “Excuse me,” he stammered, and, going to Antonia, drew her from the room. With a smile she said at once: “It's the young foreigner; I'm certain. Oh, what fun!” “Yes,” answered Shelton slowly; “he's come to see me about getting some sort of tutorship or other. Do you think your mother would mind if I took him up to have a wash? He's had a longish walk. And might he have some breakfast? He must be hungry.” “Of course! I'll tell Dobson. Shall I speak to mother? He looks nice, Dick.” He gave her a grateful, furtive look, and went back to his guest; an impulse had made him hide from her the true condition of affairs. Ferrand was standing where he had been left his face still clothed in mordant impassivity. “Come up to my room!” said Shelton; and while his guest was washing, brushing, and otherwise embellishing his person, he stood reflecting that Ferrand was by no means unpresentable, and he felt quite grateful to him.