early this evening," said Bellwattle, whereby I knew that the same thought had crossed her mind as well.

"How do you know that?" I asked.

"The light in that upper window. It's usually lit at this time. P'r'aps they've gone out for their walk."

I agreed that it was possible, but I said no more. She saw from my manner then, no doubt, that it was useless to try and draw me further, wherefore, as a woman will, she shot away at a tangent and talked of London, that I might think the matter no longer interested her. She asked me what I did with my days.

I could not help but laugh at her question.

"Ask me what the days do with me?" said I, "they are my masters, not I theirs."

"You do nothing?"

"Nothing that can be called anything. When a man is situated in life as I am, having been brought up to no profession, supported by a father whose support would be generous were it not that he gives as little as he can, when a man is situated like that, to do nothing is an art which needs the most exhausting study, in which so many are failures that you may count the successes on the fingers of your one hand."

"And you've succeeded?" said she.

"It's the only pride I have," said I. "There are not many men in London who can do nothing so well as I can on fifteen hundred a year."

"And you've no ambition to do anything else?"

"There's only one ambition," I replied, "only one worth the having."

"What's that?"

"To do something for some one else."

"Well?" said she, expectantly.

"Well!" I answered.

"What's to prevent you being ambitious?" she asked.

"The fact," said I, "that there is no one else."

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