words—sat charmed by their merry gossip of artistic “shop,” laughed at their droll stories, or listened to one or other of the members who would recite or sing for the benefit of his “brother Savages.” Those evenings, spent amid the tobacco-smoke and glass-jingling of the only Bohemia still existing in London, were the happiest in all that dull, colourless, dismal life of sound and touch.

They were the only recreations left to me. Truly mine was a tristful life.

In April, after I had lived in that dingy den six months or more, Dick came into my room one morning and made an announcement. It was that he had been commissioned by his paper to go as its correspondent with a British punitive expedition on the North-West Frontier of India.

“You’ll go, of course,” I said, reflecting that such an offer meant both advancement and profit. He had long ago told me that a commission as war correspondent was his greatest ambition.

“No, my dear old fellow,” his deep voice answered in a tone more grave than usual. “I can’t leave you alone.”

“Nonsense!” I ejaculated. “I’m not going to allow you to fling away such a good offer to remain with me. No, you must go, Dick. You’ll be back in three months at most, won’t you?”

“Perhaps before,” and his voice sounded low and strange. “But really, old fellow, I can’t go and leave you helpless, like this.”

“You’ll go,” I said decisively. “Mrs Parker will look after me, and three months will soon pass.”

“No,” he said. “It’s all very well, but you can’t sit here month after month, helpless as you are. It’s impossible.”

“I shall amuse myself with my books and my basket-making,” I answered. Truth to tell, this announcement of his had utterly crushed me. His society was the only bright spot in my life. If he left me I should be entirely alone, cheerless and melancholy. Nevertheless, when the sight is destroyed the mind is quickened, and I reflected all that this offer meant to him, and admired his self-denial and readiness to refuse it on my account.

Therefore I insisted that he should go. In the end he was persuaded, and three days later left Charing Cross for India.

When he had gone I became hopelessly depressed. In vain did I try to interest myself in the embossed books, but they were mostly works which I had read 

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