“Do you mind if I walk with you? It's so jolly now the stars are out.” “Delighted,” said Shelton; “do you often go to that club?” His companion raised his hat, and ran his fingers through his hair. “They 're rather too high-class for me,” he said. “I like to go where you can see people eat--school treats, or somewhere in the country. It does one good to see them eat. They don't get enough, you see, as a rule, to make bone; it's all used up for brain and muscle. There are some places in the winter where they give them bread and cocoa; I like to go to those.” “I went once,” said Shelton, “but I felt ashamed for putting my nose in.” “Oh, they don't mind; most of them are half-dead with cold, you know. You see splendid types; lots of dipsomaniacs . . . . It 's useful to me,” he went on as they passed a police-station, “to walk about at night; one can take so much more notice. I had a jolly night last week in Hyde Park; a chance to study human nature there.” “And do you find it interesting?” asked Shelton. His companion smiled. “Awfully,” he replied; “I saw a fellow pick three pockets.” “What did you do?” “I had a jolly talk with him.” Shelton thought of the little deep-eyed man; who made a point of not encouraging sin. “He was one of the professionals from Notting Hill, you know; told me his life. Never had a chance, of course. The most interesting part was telling him I 'd seen him pick three pockets--like creeping into a cave, when you can't tell what 's inside.” “Well?” “He showed me what he 'd got--only fivepence halfpenny.” “And what became of your friend?” asked Shelton. “Oh, went off; he had a splendidly low forehead.” They had reached Shelton's rooms. “Will you come in,” said the latter, “and have a drink?” The youth smiled, blushed, and shook his head. “No, thank you,” he said; “I have to walk to Whitechapel. I 'm living on porridge now; splendid stuff for making bone. I generally live on porridge for a week at the end of every month. It 's the best diet if you're hard up”; once more blushing and smiling, he was gone. Shelton went upstairs and sat down on his bed. He felt a little miserable. Sitting there, slowly pulling out the ends of his white tie, disconsolate, he had a vision of Antonia with her gaze fixed wonderingly on him. And this wonder of hers came as a revelation--just as that morning, when, looking from his window, he had seen a passer-by stop suddenly and scratch his leg; and it had come upon him in a flash that that man had thoughts and feelings of his own. He would never know what Antonia really felt and thought. “Till I saw her at the station, I did n't know how much I loved her or how little I knew her”; and, sighing deeply, he hurried into bed. CHAPTER XV POLE TO POLE