'Just you wait there. Don't stir from where you arc. I'll be back in three minutes,' I told her. There was a ham and beef shop at the junction of Howard and Albany Street. Thither I hastened. Leaving this convenient repository of ready-cooked comestibles, I bethought me of the question of something to drink. I was bent on doing this thing well, according to my lights. Presently I reached my room again, armed with pressed beef, cold chicken, bread, butter, mustard, salt, plates, cutlery, a segment of vividly yellow cake, and, crowning triumph, a half bottle of Macon. The Dickensian tradition rather suggests that the ripe experience of a middle-aged _bon vivant_ is desirable in the host at such occasions. Well, in that master's time youth may have lasted longer in life than it does with us. My own notion is that mine was the ideal age for such a part. I think of that little supper--Fanny's tremulous sips of Burgundy from my wash-stand tumbler, the warm flush in her pale cheeks, and the sparkle in her brown eyes--as crystallising a good deal of the phase in which I was living just then. I am quite sure I did it well, very well. In buying those viands I knew I should keenly enjoy our little supper. I pictured very clearly how delightful it would all seem to poor Fanny; her flushed enjoyment; just what a rare treat the whole episode would be for her. I knew how pleasantly that spectacle would thrill me. I thought too, in a way, what a devilish romantic chap I was, rushing out at night to purchase supper--and Burgundy; that was important; claret would not have served--for a forlorn and unhappy girl, who, but for my resourcefulness, would have gone starving to bed. How oddly mixed the motives! The Burgundy, now; I believed it a more generous and feeding wine than any other. Also, for some reason, it was for me a more romantic wine; more closely associated with, say, the Three Musketeers and with Burgundian Denys, comrade of Reade's Gerard. I quite genuinely wanted to help Fanny, to do her good, to brighten her dull life. The contemplation of her pleasure gave me what some would call the most unselfish delight. Withal, as I say, how oddly various are one's motive springs, especially in youth! And, in some respects, what a blind young fool I was! That wine, now.... Who knows? ... I took but a sip or two, for ceremony's sake, and insisted on fragile Fanny finishing the half bottle. And I kissed her lips, not her cheek, as I held the lamp high to light her on her way to the garret where she slept. * * * * *