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Passing of the Third Floor Back........................................................................................................................1

Jerome K. Jerome .....................................................................................................................................1

The neighbourhood of Bloomsbury Square towards four o'clock of a November afternoon is not so crowded

as to secure to the stranger, of appearance anything out of the common, immunity from observation. Tibb's

boy, screaming at the top of his voice that _she_ was his honey, stopped suddenly, stepped backwards on to

the toes of a voluble young lady wheeling a perambulator, and remained deaf, apparently, to the somewhat

personal remarks of the voluble young lady. Not until he had reached the next cornerand then more as a

soliloquy than as information to the streetdid Tibb's boy recover sufficient interest in his own affairs to

remark that _he_ was her bee. The voluble young lady herself, following some halfadozen yards behind,

forgot her wrongs in contemplation of the stranger's back. There was this that was peculiar about the

stranger's back: that instead of being flat it presented a decided curve. "It ain't a 'ump, and it don't look like

kervitcher of the spine," observed the voluble young lady to herself. "Blimy if I don't believe 'e's taking 'ome

The constable at the corner, trying to seem busy doing nothing, noticed the stranger's approach with gathering

interest. "That's an odd sort of a walk of yours, young man," thought the constable. "You take care you don't

"Thought he was a young man," murmured the constable, the stranger having passed him. "He had a young

The daylight was fading. The stranger, finding it impossible to read the name of the street upon the corner

"I beg your pardon," said the stranger; "but would you mind telling me my way to Bloomsbury Square."

"This is Bloomsbury Square," explained the constable; "leastways round the corner is. What number might

The stranger took from the ticket pocket of his tightly buttoned overcoat a piece of paper, unfolded it and

"Round to the left," instructed him the constable; "fourth house. Been recommended there?"

"Ah," muttered the constable to himself; "guess you won't be calling him that by the end of the week,

"Funny," added the constable, gazing after the retreating figure of the stranger. "Seen plenty of the other sex

as looked young behind and old in front. This cove looks young in front and old behind. Guess he'll look old

Constables whose beat included Bloomsbury Square had their reasons for not liking Mrs. Pennycherry.

Indeed it might have been difficult to discover any human being with reasons for liking that sharpfeatured

lady. Maybe the keeping of secondrate boarding houses in the neighbourhood of Bloomsbury does not tend

Meanwhile the stranger, proceeding npon his way, had rung the bell of Number Fortyeight. Mrs.

Pennycherry, peeping from the area and catching a glimpse, above the railings, of a handsome if somewhat

effeminate masculine face, hastened to readjust her widow's cap before the lookingglass while directing

Mary Jane to show the stranger, should he prove a problematical boarder, into the diningroom, and to light

"And don't stop gossiping, and don't you take it upon yourself to answer questions. Say I'll be up in a

minute," were Mrs. Pennycherry's further instructions, "and mind you hide your hands as much as you can."

*** "What are you grinning at?" demanded Mrs. Pennycherry, a couple of minutes later, of the dingy Mary

"By a friend. 'E didn't say no name." Mrs. Pennycherry pondered. "He's not the funny sort, is he?"

Mrs. Pennycherry ascended the stairs still pondering. As she entered the room the stranger rose and bowed.

Nothing could have been simpler than the stranger's bow, yet there came with it to Mrs. Pennycherry a rush

of old sensations long forgotten. For one brief moment Mrs. Pennycherry saw herself an amiable wellbred

lady, widow of a solicitor: a visitor had called to see her. It was but a momentary fancy. The next instant

Reality reasserted itself. Mrs. Pennycherry, a lodginghouse keeper, existing precariously upon a daily round

of petty meannesses, was prepared for contest with a possible new boarder, who fortunately looked an

"You might not rememberhim," he smiled. "He thought that I should do well to pass the few months I am

"A room to sleep in," explained the stranger, "any room will dowith food and drink sufficient for a man,

"What is right and proper, I am convinced," interrupted the stranger. "Pray do not trouble to go into detail,

Mrs. Pennycherry, puzzled, shot a quick glance at the stranger, but his face, though the gentle eyes were

"At all events you will see the room," suggested Mrs. Pennycherry, "before we discuss terms."

"Certainly," agreed the stranger. "I am a little tired and shall be glad to rest there."

Mrs. Pennycherry led the way upward; on the landing of the third floor, paused a moment undecided, then

"For this room," stated Mrs. Pennycherry, "together with full board, consisting of"

"Of everything needful. It goes without saying," again interrupted the stranger with his quiet grave smile.

"I have generally asked," continued Mrs. Pennycherry, "four pounds a week. To you" Mrs. Pennycherry's

voice, unknown to her, took to itself the note of aggressive generosity"seeing you have been recommended

"Dear lady," said the stranger, "that is kind of you. As you have divined, I am not a rich man. If it be not

Again Mrs. Pennycherry, familiar with the satirical method, shot a suspicious glance upon the stranger, but

not a line was there, upon that smooth fair face, to which a sneer could for a moment have clung. Clearly he

"We shall not quarrel," for a third time the stranger interrupted. "You have been very considerate to me as it

The stranger appeared anxious to be alone. Mrs. Pennycherry, having put a match to the stranger's fire, turned

to depart. And at this point it was that Mrs. Pennycherry, the holder hitherto of an unbroken record for sanity,

behaved in a manner she herself, five minutes earlier in her career, would have deemed impossiblethat no

living soul who had ever known her would have believed, even had Mrs. Pennycherry gone down upon her

"Did I say three pound ten?" demanded Mrs. Pennycherry of the stranger, her hand upon the door. She spoke

crossly. She was feeling cross, with the stranger, with herselfparticularly with herself.

"You were kind enough to reduce it to that amount," replied the stranger; "but if upon reflection you find

"I was making a mistake," said Mrs. Pennycherry, "it should have been two pound ten."

"I cannotI will not accept such sacrifice," exclaimed the stranger; "the three pound ten I can well afford."

"Two pound ten are my terms," snapped Mrs. Pennycherry. "If you are bent on paying more, you can go

Her vehemence must have impressed the stranger. "We will not contend further," he smiled. "I was merely

"I am not so sure," returned the stranger. "I am somewhat suspicious of you. But wilful woman must, I

The stranger held out his hand, and to Mrs. Pennycherry, at that moment, it seemed the most natural thing in

the world to take it as if it had been the hand of an old friend and to end the interview with a pleasant

Mary Jane was standing by the window, her hands folded in front of her, when Mrs. Pennycherry reentered

the kitchen. By standing close to the window one caught a glimpse of the trees in Bloomsbury Square and

"There's nothing much to do for the next half hour, till Cook comes back. I'll see to the door if you'd like a

"It would be nice," agreed the girl so soon as she had recovered power of speech; "it's just the time of day I

Fortyeight Bloomsbury Square, assembled after dinner in the drawingroom, discussed the stranger with

that freedom and frankness characteristic of Fortyeight Bloomsbury Square, towards the absent.

"Not what I call a smart young man," was the opinion of Augustus Longcord, who was something in the City.

"Thpeaking for mythelf," commented his partner Isidore, "hav'n'th any uthe for the thmart young man. Too

There was this to be said for the repartee of Fortyeight Bloomsbury Square: it was simple of construction

"Well it made me feel good just looking at him," declared Miss Kite, the highly coloured. "It was his clothes,

"It would be clothes that would make you thinkif anything," drawled the languid Miss Devine. She was a

tall, handsome girl, engaged at the moment in futile efforts to recline with elegance and comfort combined

upon a horsehair sofa. Miss Kite, by reason of having secured the only easychair, was unpopular that

evening; so that Miss Devine's remark received from the rest of the company more approbation than perhaps

"Is that intended to be clever, dear, or only rude?" Miss Kite requested to be informed.

"Myself? I must confess," shouted the tall young lady's father, commonly called the Colonel, "I found him a

"I noticed you seemed to be getting on very well together," purred his wife, a plump, smiling little lady.

"Possibly we were," retorted the Colonel. "Fate has accustomed me to the society of fools."

"Isn't it a pity to start quarrelling immediately after dinner, you two," suggested their thoughtful daughter

from the sofa, "you'll have nothing left to amuse you for the rest of the evening."

"He didn't strike me as a conversationalist," said the lady who was cousin to a baronet; "but he did pass the

"Or that he didn't know you and thought maybe you'd leave him half a spoonful," laughed Augustus the wit.

The Colonel, securing the evening paper, retired into a corner. The highly coloured Kite, reaching down from

the mantelpiece a paper fan, held it coyly before her face. Miss Devine sat upright on the horsehair sofa, and

"Know anything?" demanded Augustus of the stranger, breaking the somewhat remarkable silence.

The stranger evidently did not understand. It was necessary for Augustus, the witty, to advance further into

"What's going to pull off the Lincoln handicap? Tell me, and I'll go out straight and put my shirt upon it."

"I think you would act unwisely," smiled the stranger; "I am not an authority upon the subject."

It would have been difficult for a joke to fall more flat. Nobody laughed, though why Mr. Augustus Longcord

could not understand, and maybe none of his audience could have told him, for at Fortyeight Bloomsbury

Square Mr. Augustus Longcord passed as a humorist. The stranger himself appeared unaware that he was

"Well what about this theatre," demanded Mr. Longcord of his friend and partner; "do you want to go or don't

"Motht of them thupid, more or leth. Pity to wathte the ticketh," argued Isidore, and the pair went out.

"Are you staying long in London?" asked Miss Kite, raising her practised eyes towards the stranger.

An unusual quiet had invaded the drawingroom of Fortyeight Bloomsbury Square, generally noisy with

strident voices about this hour. The Colonel remained engrossed in his paper. Mrs. Devine sat with her plump

white hands folded on her lap, whether asleep or not it was impossible to say. The lady who was cousin to a

baronet had shifted her chair beneath the gasolier, her eyes bent on her everlasting crochet work. The languid

Miss Devine had crossed to the piano, where she sat fingering softly the tuneless keys, her back to the cold

"Sit down!" commanded saucily Miss Kite, indicating with her fan the vacant seat beside her. "Tell me about

yourself. You interest me." Miss Kite adopted a pretty authoritative air towards all youthfullooking

members of the opposite sex. It harmonised with the peach complexion and the golden hair, and fitted her

"I am glad of that," answered the stranger, taking the chair suggested. "I so wish to interest you."

"You're a very bold boy." Miss Kite lowered her fan, for the purpose of glancing archly over the edge of it,

and for the first time encountered the eyes of the stranger looking into hers. And then it was that Miss Kite

experienced precisely the same curious sensation that an hour or so ago had troubled Mrs. Pennycherry when

the stranger had first bowed to her. It seemed to Miss Kite that she was no longer the Miss Kite that, had she

risen and looked into it, the flyblown mirror over the marble mantelpiece would, she knew, have presented

to her view; but quite another Miss Kitea cheerful, brighteyed lady verging on middle age, yet still

goodlooking in spite of her faded complexion and somewhat thin brown locks. Miss Kite felt a pang of

jealousy shoot through her; this middleaged Miss Kite seemed, on the whole, a more attractive lady. There

was a wholesomeness, a broadmindedness about her that instinctively drew one towards her. Not hampered,

as Miss Kite herself was, by the necessity of appearing to be somewhere between eighteen and twentytwo,

this other Miss Kite could talk sensibly, even brilliantly: one felt it. A thoroughly "nice" woman this other

Miss Kite; the real Miss Kite, though envious, was bound to admit it. Miss Kite wished to goodness she had

never seen the woman. The glimpse of her had rendered Miss Kite dissatisfied with herself.

"I am not a boy," explained the stranger; "and I had no intention of being bold."

"I know," replied Miss Kite. "It was a silly remark. Whatever induced me to make it, I can't think. Getting

"I think it a beautiful age," insisted the stranger; "young enough not to have lost the joy of youth, old enough

"Oh, I daresay," returned Miss Kite, "any age you'd think beautiful. I'm going to bed." Miss Kite rose. The

"It is early yet," pleaded the stranger, "I was looking forward to a talk with you."

The truth was, Miss Kite was impatient to have a look at herself in the glass, in her own room with the door

shut. The vision of that other Miss Kitethe cleanlooking lady of the pale face and the brown hair had been

so vivid, Miss Kite wondered whether temporary forgetfulness might not have fallen upon her while dressing

The stranger, left to his own devices, strolled towards the loo table, seeking something to read.

"You seem to have frightened away Miss Kite," remarked the lady who was cousin to a baronet.

"My cousin, Sir William Bosster," observed the crocheting lady, "who married old Lord Egham's nieceyou

"A charming family. Cannot understandmy cousin Sir William, I mean, cannot understand my remaining

here. 'My dear Emily'he says the same thing every time he sees me: 'My dear Emily, how can you exist

among the sort of people one meets with in a boardinghouse.' But they amuse me."

"Our family on my mother's side," continued Sir William's cousin in her placid monotone, "was connected

with the TattonJoneses, who when King George the Fourth" Sir William's cousin, needing another reel of

"I'm sure I don't know why I'm telling you all this," said Sir William's cousin in an irritable tone. "It can't

"It is very kind of you to say so," sighed Sir William's cousin, but without conviction; "I am afraid sometimes

"Dear lady," said the stranger, "your gentle face, your gentle voice, your gentle bearing, all proclaim it."

She looked without flinching into the stranger's eyes, and gradually a smile banished the reigning dulness of

"How foolish of me." She spoke rather to herself than to the stranger. "Why, of course, peoplepeople

whose opinion is worth troubling aboutjudge of you by what you are, not by what you go about saying you

"I am the widow of a provincial doctor, with an income of just two hundred and thirty pounds per annum,"

she argued. "The sensible thing for me to do is to make the best of it, and to worry myself about these high

and mighty relations of mine as little as they have ever worried themselves about me."

"I have other connections," remembered Sir William's cousin; "those of my poor husband, to whom instead of

being the 'poor relation' I could be the fairy godmama. They are my peopleor would be," added Sir

She flushed the instant she had said the words and, rising, commenced preparations for a hurried departure.

"Having been called a 'vulgar snob,'" retorted the lady with some heat, "I think it about time I went."

"Whatever I may have thought," remarked the indignant dame, "no ladyleast of all in the presence of a

total strangerwould have called herself" The poor dame paused, bewildered. "There is something very

curious the matter with me this evening, that I cannot understand," she explained, "I seem quite unable to

Still surrounded by bewilderment, she wished the stranger goodnight, hoping that when next they met she

would be more herself. The stranger, hoping so also, opened the door and closed it again behind her.

"Tell me," laughed Miss Devine, who by sheer force of talent was contriving to wring harmony from the

"How well you play!" observed the stranger. "I knew you had genius for music the moment I saw you."

The girl laughed, well pleased. "You seem to have lost no time in studying my face."

"Ah, yes, all the virtues. Perhaps. We will take them for granted." It was odd how serious the girl had

"I see no reverse side," replied the stranger. "I see but a fair girl, bursting into noble womanhood."

"And nothing else? You read no trace of greed, of vanity, of sordidness, of" An angry laugh escaped her

"A reader of faces." The stranger smiled. "Do you know what is written upon yours at this very moment? A

love of truth that is almost fierce, scorn of lies, scorn of hypocrisy, the desire for all things pure, contempt of

all things that are contemptibleespecially of such things as are contemptible in woman. Tell me, do I not

I wonder, thought the girl, is that why those two others both hurried from the room? Does everyone feel

ashamed of the littleness that is in them when looked at by those clear, believing eyes of yours?

The idea occurred to her: "Papa seemed to have a good deal to say to you during dinner. Tell me, what were

"The military looking gentleman upon my left? We talked about your mother principally."

"I am sorry," returned the girl, wishful now she had not asked the question. "I was hoping he might have

"He did try one or two," admitted the stranger; "but I have been about the world so little, I was glad when he

talked to me about himself. I feel we shall be friends. He spoke so nicely, too, about Mrs. Devine."

"He told me he had been married for twenty years and had never regretted it but once!"

Her black eyes flashed upon him, but meeting his, the suspicion died from them. She turned aside to hide her

"Only once," explained the stranger, "in a passing irritable mood. It was so frank of him to admit it. He told

meI think he has taken a liking to me. Indeed he hinted as much. He said he did not often get an

opportnnity of talking to a man like myselfhe told me that he and your mother, when they travel together,

are always mistaken for a honeymoon couple. Some of the experiences he related to me were really quite

amusing." The stranger laughed at recollection of them"that even here, in this place, they are generally

"Yes," said the girl, "that is true. Mr. Longcord gave them that name, the second evening after our arrival. It

"Nothingso it seems to me," said the stranger, "is more beautiful than the love that has weathered the

storms of life. The sweet, tender blossom that flowers in the heart of the youngin hearts such as

yoursthat, too, is beautiful. The love of the young for the young, that is the beginning of life. But the love

The Colonel had finished his paper. "You two are engaged in a very absorbing conversation," observed the

"We were discussing Darbies and Joans," explained his daughter. "How beautiful is the love that has

"Ah!" smiled the Colonel, "that is hardly fair. My friend has been repeating to cynical youth the confessions

of an amorous husband's affection for his middleaged and somewhat" The Colonel in playful mood laid

his hand upon the stranger's shoulder, an action that necessitated his looking straight into the stranger's eyes.

Somebody was calling the Colonel a cad. Not only that, but was explaining quite clearly, so that the Colonel

"That you and your wife lead a cat and dog existence is a disgrace to both of you. At least you might have the

decency to try and hide it from the worldnot make a jest of your shame to every passing stranger. You are

Who was daring to say these things? Not the stranger, his lips had not moved. Besides, it was not his voice.

Indeed it sounded much more like the voice of the Colonel himself. The Colonel looked from the stranger to

his daughter, from his daughter back to the stranger. Clearly they had not heard the voicea mere

Yet the impression remaining was not to be shaken off. Undoubtedly it was bad taste to have joked to the

But then no gentleman would have permitted such a jest to be possible. No gentleman would be forever

wrangling with his wifecertainly never in public. However irritating the woman, a gentleman would have

Mrs. Devine had risen, was coming slowly across the room. Fear laid hold of the Colonel. She was going to

address some aggravating remark to himhe could see it in her eyewhich would irritate him into savage

Even this prize idiot of a stranger would understand why boardinghouse wits had dubbed them "Darby and

Joan," would grasp the fact that the gallant Colonel had thought it amusing, in conversation with a table

"My dear," cried the Colonel, hurrying to speak first, "does not this room strike you as cold? Let me fetch

It was useless: the Colonel felt it. It had been too long the custom of both of them to preface with politeness

their deadliest insults to each other. She came on, thinking of a suitable reply: suitable from her point of view,

that is. In another moment the truth would be out. A wild, fantastic possibility flashed through the Colonel's

"Letitia," cried the Colonel, and the tone of his voice surprised her into silence, "I want you to look closely at

Mrs. Devine, so urged, looked at the stranger long and hard. "Yes," she murmured, turning to her husband,

"I cannot fix it," replied the Colonel; "I thought that maybe you would remember."

"It will come to me," mused Mrs. Devine. "It is someoneyears ago, when I was a girlin Devonshire.

It was, as Mr. Augustus Longcord explained to his partner Isidore, the colossal foolishness of the stranger

that was the cause of all the trouble. "Give me a man, who can take care of himselfor thinks he can,"

declared Augustus Longcord, "and I am prepared to give a good account of myself. But when a helpless baby

refuses even to look at what you call your figures, tells you that your mere word is sufficient for him, and

hands you over his chequebook to fill up for yourselfwell, it isn't playing the game."

"Well," demanded Augustus one evening later, meeting Isidore ascending the stairs after a long talk with the

"What did he thay! talked about the Jewth: what a grand rathe they werehow people mithjudged them: all

"Thaid thome of the motht honorable men he had ever met had been Jewth. Thought I wath one of 'em!"

"Get anything out of him. Of courthe not. Couldn't very well thell the whole rathe, ath it were, for a couple of

There were many things Fortyeight Bloomsbury Square came gradually to the conclusion were not worth

the doing:Snatching at the gravy; pouncing out of one's turn upon the vegetables and helping oneself to

more than one's fair share; manoeuvering for the easychair; sitting on the evening paper while pretending

not to have seen itall suchlike tiresome bits of business. For the little one made out of it, really it was not

worth the bother. Grumbling everlastingly at one's food; grumbling everlastingly at most things; abusing

Pennycherry behind her back; abusing, for a change, one's fellowboarders; squabbling with one's

fellowboarders about nothing in particular; sneering at one's fellowboarders; talking scandal of one's

fellowboarders; making senseless jokes about one's fellowboarders; talking big about oneself, nobody

believing oneall suchlike vulgarities. Other boardinghouses might indulge in them: Fortyeight

The truth is, Fortyeight Bloomsbury Square was coming to a very good opinion of itself: for the which not

Bloomsbury Square so much as the stranger must be blamed. The stranger had arrived at Fortyeight

Bloomsbury Square with the preconceived ideawhere obtained from Heaven knowsthat its seemingly

commonplace, meanminded, coarsefibred occupants were in reality ladies and gentlemen of the first water;

and time and observation had apparently only strengthened this absurd idea. The natural result was,

Fortyeight Bloomsbury Square was coming round to the stranger's opinion of itself.

Mrs. Pennycherry, the stranger would persist in regarding as a lady born and bred, compelled by

circumstances over which she had no control to fill an arduous but honorable position of middleclass

societya sort of fostermother, to whom were due the thanks and gratitude of her promiscuous family; and

this view of herself Mrs. Pennycherry now clung to with obstinate conviction. There were disadvantages

attaching, but these Mrs. Pennycherry appeared prepared to suffer cheerfully. A lady born and bred cannot

charge other ladies and gentlemen for coals and candles they have never burnt; a fostermother cannot palm

off upon her children New Zealand mutton for Southdown. A mere lodginghousekeeper can play these

tricks, and pocket the profits. But a lady feels she cannot: Mrs. Pennycherry felt she no longer could.

To the stranger Miss Kite was a witty and delightful conversationalist of most attractive personality. Miss

Kite had one failing: it was lack of vanity. She was unaware of her own delicate and refined beauty. If Miss

Kite could only see herself with his, the stranger's eyes, the modesty that rendered her distrustful of her

natural charms would fall from her. The stranger was so sure of it Miss Kite determined to put it to the test.

One evening, an hour before dinner, there entered the drawingroom, when the stranger only was there and

before the gas was lighted, a pleasant, goodlooking lady, somewhat pale, with neatlyarranged brown hair,

who demanded of the stranger if he knew her. All her body was trembling, and her voice seemed inclined to

run away from her and become a sob. But when the stranger, looking straight into her eyes, told her that from

the likeness he thought she must be Miss Kite's younger sister, but much prettier, it became a laugh instead:

and that evening the goldenhaired Miss Kite disappeared never to show her highcoloured face again; and

what perhaps, more than all else, might have impressed some former habitue of Fortyeight Bloomsbury

Square with awe, it was that no one in the house made even a passing inquiry concerning her.

Sir William's cousin the stranger thought an acquisition to any boardinghouse. A lady of highclass family!

There was nothing outward or visible perhaps to tell you that she was of highclass family. She herself,

naturally, would not mention the fact, yet somehow you felt it. Unconsciously she set a highclass tone,

diffused an atmosphere of gentle manners. Not that the stranger had said this in so many words; Sir William's

For Mr. Longcord and his partner, as representatives of the best type of business men, the stranger had a great

respect. With what unfortunate results to themselves has been noted. The curious thing is that the Firm

appeared content with the price they had paid for the stranger's good opinionhad even, it was rumoured,

acquired a taste for honest men's respectthat in the long run was likely to cost them dear. But we all have

The Colonel and Mrs. Devine both suffered a good deal at first from the necessity imposed upon them of

learning, somewhat late in life, new tricks. In the privacy of their own apartment they condoled with one

"Tomfool nonsense," grumbled the Colonel, "you and I starting billing and cooing at our age!"

"What I object to," said Mrs. Devine, "is the feeling that somehow I am being made to do it."

"The idea that a man and his wife cannot have their little joke together for fear of what some impertinent

"Even when he isn't there," said Mrs. Devine, "I seem to see him looking at me with those vexing eyes of his.

"I have met him somewhere," mused the Colonel, "I'll swear I've met him somewhere. I wish to goodness he

A hundred things a day the Colonel wanted to say to Mrs. Devine, a hundred things a day Mrs. Devine would

have liked to observe to the Colonel. But by the time the opportunity occurredwhen nobody else was by to

"Women will be women," was the sentiment with which the Colonel consoled himself. "A man must bear

"Oh, well, I suppose they're all alike," laughed Mrs. Devine to herself, having arrived at that stage of despair

when one seeks refuge in cheerfulness. "What's the use of putting oneself outit does no good, and only

upsets one." There is a certain satisfaction in feeling you are bearing with heroic resignation the irritating

follies of others. Colonel and Mrs. Devine came to enjoy the luxury of much selfapprobation.

But the person seriously annoyed by the stranger's bigoted belief in the innate goodness of everyone he came

across was the languid, handsome Miss Devine. The stranger would have it that Miss Devine was a

noblesouled, highminded young woman, something midway between a Flora Macdonald and a Joan of

Arc. Miss Devine, on the contrary, knew herself to be a sleek, luxuryloving animal, quite willing to sell

herself to the bidder who could offer her the finest clothes, the richest foods, the most sumptuous

surroundings. Such a bidder was to hand in the person of a retired bookmaker, a somewhat greasy old

Miss Devine, having made up her mind that the thing had got to be done, was anxious that it should be done

quickly. And here it was that the stranger's ridiculous opinion of her not only irritated but inconvenienced

her. Under the very eyes of a personhowever foolishconvinced that you are possessed of all the highest

attributes of your sex, it is difficult to behave as though actuated by only the basest motives. A dozen times

had Miss Devine determined to end the matter by formal acceptance of her elderly admirer's large and flabby

hand, and a dozen timesthe vision intervening of the stranger's grave, believing eyeshad Miss Devine

refused decided answer. The stranger would one day depart. Indeed, he had told her himself, he was but a

passing traveller. When he was gone it would be easier. So she thought at the time.

One afternoon the stranger entered the room where she was standing by the window, looking out upon the

bare branches of the trees in Bloomsbury Square. She remembered afterwards, it was just such another foggy

afternoon as the afternoon of the stranger's arrival three months before. No one else was in the room. The

stranger closed the door, and came towards her with that curious, quickleaping step of his. His long coat

was tightly buttoned, and in his hands he carried his old felt hat and the massive knotted stick that was almost

"And I shall always remember you," promised the stranger, "and I wish you every joythe joy of love, the

"Do you think I have not noticed?" smiled the stranger, "a gallant, handsome lad, and clever. You love him

and he loves you. I could not have gone away without knowing it was well with you."

"Ah, yes, I love him," she answered petulantly. "Your eyes can see clearly enough, when they want to. But

one does not live on love, in our world. I will tell you the man I am going to marry if you care to know." She

would not meet his eyes. She kept her gaze still fixed upon the dingy trees, the mist beyond, and spoke

rapidly and vehemently: "The man who can give me all my soul's desiremoney and the things that money

can buy. You think me a woman, I'm only a pig. He is moist, and breathes like a porpoise; with cunning in

place of a brain, and the rest of him mere stomach. But he is good enough for me."

She hoped this would shock the stranger and that now, perhaps, he would go. It irritated her to hear him only

His voice had a strange ring of authority, compelling her to turn and look upon his face. Yes, it was true, the

fancy that from the very first had haunted her. She had met him, talked to himin silent country roads, in

crowded city streets, where was it? And always in talking with him her spirit had been lifted up: she had

"There are those," continued the stranger (and for the first time she saw that he was of a noble presence, that

his gentle, childlike eyes could also command), "whose Better Self lies slain by their own hand and troubles

them no more. But yours, my child, you have let grow too strong; it will ever be your master. You must obey.

Flee from it and it will follow you; you cannot escape it. Insult it and it will chastise you with burning shame,

with stinging selfreproach from day to day." The sternness faded from the beautiful face, the tenderness

crept back. He laid his hand upon the young girl's shoulder. "You will marry your lover," he smiled. "With

And the girl, looking up into the strong, calm face, knew that it would be so, that the power of resisting her

"Now," said the stranger, "come to the door with me. Leavetakings are but wasted sadness. Let me pass out

She thought that perhaps he would turn his face again, but she saw no more of him than the odd roundness of

his back under the tightly buttoned coat, before he faded into the gathering fog.