improved; and a novel he had written in his leisure time promised to
be one of the successes of the season. Then it was that I spoke
plainly.

   "If I am opening a wound too painful to be touched," I said, "tell
me. If, on the contrary, it is an ordinary sort of trouble upon
which the sympathy of a fellow worker may fall as balm, let me hear
it."

   "So far as I am concerned," he replied, "I should be glad to tell
you. Speaking about it does me good, and may lead—so I am always in
hopes—to an idea. But, for your own sake, if you take my advice,
you will not press me."

   "How can it affect me?" I asked, "it is nothing to do with me, is
it?"

   "It need have nothing to do with you," he answered, "if you are
sensible enough to keep out of it. If I tell you:  from this time
onward it will be your trouble also. Anyhow, that is what has
happened in four other separate cases. If you like to be the fifth
and complete the half dozen of us, you are welcome. But remember I
have warned you."

   "What has it done to the other five?" I demanded.

   "It has changed them from cheerful, companionable persons into gloomy
one-idead bores," he told me.  "They think of but one thing, they
talk of but one thing, they dream of but one thing. Instead of
getting over it, as time goes on, it takes possession of them more
and more. There are men, of course, who would be unaffected by it—
who could shake it off. I warn you in particular against it,
because, in spite of all that is said, I am convinced you have a
sense of humour; and that being so, it will lay hold of you. It will
plague you night and day. You see what it has made of me! Three
months ago a lady interviewer described me as of a sunny temperament.
If you know your own business you will get out at the next station."

   I wish now I had followed his advice. As it was, I allowed my
curiosity to take possession of me, and begged him to explain. And

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