“I will tell you how it happened to-night,” answered the draper, and as he spoke he turned round, not his long left ear upon the pivot of his skull, but his whole person upon the pivot of the counter--to misuse the word pivot with Wordsworth--and bolted the shop-door. “After the young men had put up the shutters and were gone,” he said, returning to the counter, “leaving me as usual to bolt the door, I fell a-thinking. Outside, the street was full of sunlight, but only enough came in to show how gloomy the place was without more of it, and the back of the shop was nearly dark. It was very still too--so still that the silence seemed to have taken the shape of gloom. Pardon me for talking in this unbusiness-like way: a man can’t be a draper always; he must be foolish sometimes. Thirty years ago I used to read Tennyson. I believe I was amongst the earliest of his admirers.” “Foolish!” echoed Wingfold, thoughtfully. “You see,” the draper went on, “there IS something solemn in the quiet after business is over. Sometimes it’s more so, sometimes less; but this night it came upon me that the shop felt like a chapel--had the very air of one somehow, and so I fell a thinking, and forgot to shut the door. How it began I don’t know, but my past life came up to me, and I remembered how, when I was a young man, I used to despise my father’s business, to which he was bringing me up, and feed my fancy with things belonging to higher walks in life. Then I saw that must have been partly how I fell into the mistake of marrying Mrs. Drew. She was the daughter of a doctor in our town, a widower. He was in poor health, and unable to make much of his practice, so that when he died she was left destitute, and for that reason alone, I do believe, accepted me. What followed you know: she went away with a man who used to travel for a large Manchester house. I have never heard of her since.