He sees nothing of that traffic. He sees the little sea garden at Sandgate and that little group of people very small and bright and something--something hanging over them. "It isn't fair on them--or me--or anybody!" Then you know, quite suddenly, I imagine him swearing. I imagine him at his luncheon, a meal he usually treats with a becoming gravity. I imagine the waiter marking the kindly self-indulgence of his clean-shaven face, and advancing with that air of intimate participation the good waiter shows to such as he esteems. I figure the respectful pause, the respectful enquiry. "Oh, anything!" cries Melville, and the waiter retires amazed. V To add to Melville's distress, as petty discomforts do add to all genuine trouble, his club-house was undergoing an operation, and was full of builders and decorators; they had gouged out its windows and gagged its hall with scaffolding, and he and his like were guests of a stranger club that had several members who blew. They seemed never to do anything but blow and sigh and rustle papers and go to sleep about the place; they were like blight-spots on the handsome plant of this host-club, and it counted for little with Melville, in the state he was in, that all the fidgety breathers were persons of eminent position. But it was this temporary dislocation of his world that brought him unexpectedly into a _quasi_ confidential talk with Chatteris one afternoon, for Chatteris was one of the less eminent and amorphous members of this club that was sheltering Melville's club. [Illustration: They seemed never to do anything but blow and sigh and rustle papers.] Melville had taken up _Punch_--he was in that mood when a man takes up anything--and was reading, he did not know exactly what. Presently he sighed, looked up, and discovered Chatteris entering the room. He was surprised to see Chatteris, startled and just faintly alarmed, and Chatteris it was evident was surprised and disconcerted to see him. Chatteris stood in as awkward an attitude as he was capable of, staring unfavourably, and for a moment or so he gave no sign of recognition. Then he nodded and came forward reluctantly. His every movement suggested the will without the wit to escape. "You here?" he said. "What are you doing away from Hythe at this time?" asked Melville. "I came here to write a letter," said Chatteris. He looked about him rather helplessly. Then he sat down beside Melville and demanded a cigarette. Suddenly he plunged into intimacy. "It is doubtful whether I shall contest Hythe," he remarked. "Yes?" "Yes." He lit his cigarette. "Would you?" he asked. "Not a bit of it," said Melville. "But then it's not my line." "Is it mine?" "Isn't it a little late in the day to drop it?" said Melville. "You've been put up for it now. Every one's at work. Miss Glendower----" "I know," said Chatteris. "Well?" "I don't seem to want to go on." "My dear man!"