porridge-dish and fell to work upon the fresh mackerel which had been caught at sunrise. "You don't eat like this in London."

Upon my soul, I believe he expects to see me waste away to nothing now that he imagines I am in love. Thank Heaven, a bitter experience has made me too prosaic for that. I may not be a philosopher, but at least I manage to live alone, which cannot be done with such romantic fancies as lead to starvation or any such tricks as that. Indeed, I learn much from Dandy, whose deepest passion never diminishes his excitement when it comes to the moment for Moxon to throw his two biscuits on to the tesselated pavement in the hall. It is he who likes them thrown. At first I had disapproved.

"Can't you put those biscuits on a plate?" I once said to Moxon, "instead of flinging the food at him."

Moxon took my reproach most excellently, and replied he had begun in that fashion, but that Dandy had shown signs of disliking the plate. It appears he picked up the biscuits himself and threw them across the hall.

"As if to make out, sir," said Moxon, "that they was alive. So I thought it would add to the illusion if I did it for him. I fancy myself, sir, that they must taste nicer to him that way."

Of course, Moxon is a sentimentalist, which I am not; neither, for the matter of that, is Dandy. But Moxon—well, I rather fancy myself that Moxon would go down in weight a bit were he in love. He is built that way. Now, I am neither built that way, nor am I at the present moment martyr to any passion at all, wherefore I would eat a breakfast with any one and be glad of it.

I do not think I have ever felt so keen an appetite in all my life as during these three days while I am waiting for Friday to arrive. One thing only concerns me. Our meeting is to be at twelve o'clock—midday. In all my thoughts of her coming, I have imagined it would be at night, when she might have found excuse to escape from the Miss Fennells and contrive to see me alone. But, no, it is to be in broad daylight. Even that heavy veil—which, indeed, it is quite likely she will not wear, since I have said I know her eyes are well—but even that at such an hour will not dim the quickness of her perception. She will see me as Bellwattle sees me, as every woman has seen me since the first moment when an absurd and morbid sensitiveness induced me to notice such things. And then—will she listen to me? I leave it on the knees of the implacable gods.

Something tells 

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