my heart for the first time a throbbing sense of being over-governed.  I said nothing, and he thought my silence was all sorrow.  ‘I shall not live to see you married,’ he went on, ‘but since the foundation is laid, that little signifies; it would be a selfish pleasure, and I have never thought of myself but in you.  To foresee your future, in its main outline, to know to a certainty that you will be safely domiciled here, with a wife approved by my judgment, cultivating the moral fruit of which I have sown the seed—this will content me.  But, my son, I wish to clear this bright vision from the shadow of a doubt.  I believe in your docility; I believe I may trust the salutary force of your respect for my memory.  But I must remember that when I am removed you will stand here alone, face to face with a hundred nameless temptations to perversity.  The fumes of unrighteous pride may rise into your brain and tempt you, in the interest of a vulgar theory which it will call your independence, to shatter the edifice I have so laboriously constructed.  So I must ask you for a promise—the solemn promise you owe my condition.’  And he grasped my hand.  ‘You will follow the path I have marked; you will be faithful to the young girl whom an influence as devoted as that which has governed your own young life has moulded into everything amiable; you will marry Isabel Vernor.’  This was pretty ‘steep,’ as we used to say at school.  I was frightened; I drew away my hand and asked to be trusted without any such terrible vow.  My reluctance startled my father into a suspicion that the vulgar theory of independence had already been whispering to me.  He sat up in his bed and looked at me with eyes which seemed to foresee a lifetime of odious ingratitude.  I felt the reproach; I feel it now.  I promised!  And even now I don’t regret my promise nor complain of my father’s tenacity.  I feel, somehow, as if the seeds of ultimate repose had been sown in those unsuspecting years—as if after many days I might gather the mellow fruit.  But after many days!  I will keep my promise, I will obey; but I want to live first!”

“My dear fellow, you are living now.  All this passionate consciousness of your situation is a very ardent life.  I wish I could say as much for my own.”

“I want to forget my situation.  I want to spend three months without thinking of the past or the future, grasping whatever the present offers me.  Yesterday I thought I was in a fair way to sail with the tide.  But this morning comes this memento!”  And he held up his letter again.

“What is it?”

“A letter from Smyrna.”

“I see you have not yet broken the seal.”

“No; nor do I mean to, for the present.  It contains bad news.”

“What do you call bad news?”

“News that I am expected in Smyrna in three weeks.  News that Mr. Vernor disapproves of my roving about the world.  News that his daughter is standing expectant at the altar.”

“Is not this pure conjecture?”

“Conjecture, possibly, but safe conjecture.  As soon as I looked at the letter something smote me at the heart.  Look at the device on the seal, and I am sure you will find it’s Tarry not!”  And he flung the letter on the grass.

“Upon my word, you had better open it,” I said.

“If I were to open it and read my summons, do you know what I should do?  I should march home and ask the Oberkellner how one gets to Smyrna, pack my trunk, take my ticket, and not stop till I arrived.  I know I should; it would be the fascination of habit.  The only way, therefore, to wander to my rope’s end is to leave the letter unread.”

“In your place,” I said, “curiosity would make me open it.”

He shook his head.  “I have no curiosity!  For a long time now the idea of my marriage has ceased to be a novelty, and I have contemplated it mentally in every possible light.  I fear nothing from that side, but I do fear something from conscience.  I want my hands tied.  Will you do me a favour?  Pick up the letter, put it into your pocket, and keep it till I ask you for it.  When I do, you may know that I am at my rope’s end.”

I took the letter, smiling.  “And how long is your rope to be?  The Homburg season doesn’t last for ever.”

“Does it last a month?  Let that be my season!  A month hence you will give it back to me.”

“To-morrow if you say so.  Meanwhile, let it rest in peace!”  And I consigned it to the most sacred interstice of my pocket-book.  To say that I was disposed to humour the poor fellow would seem to be saying that I thought his request fantastic.  It was his situation, by no fault of his own, that was fantastic, and he was only trying to be natural.  He watched me put away the letter, and when it had disappeared gave a soft sigh of relief.  The sigh was natural, and yet it set me thinking.  His general recoil from an immediate responsibility imposed by others might be wholesome enough; but if there was an old grievance on one side, was there not possibly a new-born delusion on the other?  It would be unkind to withhold a reflection that might serve as a warning; so I told him, abruptly, that I had been an undiscovered spectator, the night before, of his exploits at roulette.

He blushed deeply, but he met my eyes with the same clear good-humour.

“Ah, then, you saw that wonderful lady?”

“Wonderful she was indeed.  I saw her afterwards, too, sitting on the terrace in the starlight.  I imagine she was not alone.”

“No, indeed, I was with her—for nearly an hour.  Then I walked home with her.”

“Ah!  And did you go in?”

“No, she said it was too late to ask me; though she remarked that in a general way she did not stand upon ceremony.”

“She did herself injustice.  When it came to losing your money for you, she made you insist.”

“Ah, you noticed that too?” cried Pickering, still quite unconfused.  “I felt as if the whole table were staring at me; but her manner was so gracious and reassuring that I supposed she was doing nothing unusual.  She confessed, however, afterwards, that she is very eccentric.  The world began to call her so, she said, before she ever dreamed of it, and at last finding that she had the reputation, in spite of herself, she resolved to enjoy its privileges.  Now, she does what she chooses.”

“In other words, she is a lady with no reputation to lose!”

Pickering seemed puzzled; he smiled a little. “Is not that what you say of bad women?”

“Of some—of those who are found out.”

“Well,” he said, still smiling, “I have not yet found out Madame Blumenthal.”

“If that’s her name, I suppose she’s German.”

“Yes; but she speaks English so well that you wouldn’t know it.  She is very clever.  Her husband is dead.”

I laughed involuntarily at the conjunction of these facts, and Pickering’s clear glance seemed to question my mirth.  “You have been so bluntly frank with me,” I said, “that I too must be frank.  Tell me, if you can, whether this clever Madame Blumenthal, whose husband is dead, has given a point to your desire for a suspension of communication with Smyrna.”

He seemed to ponder my question, unshrinkingly.  “I think not,” he said, at last.  “I have had the desire for three months; I have known Madame Blumenthal for less than twenty-four hours.”

“Very true.  But when you found this letter of yours on your place at breakfast, did you seem for a moment to see Madame Blumenthal sitting opposite?”

“Opposite?”

“Opposite, my dear fellow, or anywhere in the neighbourhood.  In a word, does she interest you?”

“Very much!” he cried, joyously.

“Amen!” I answered, jumping up with a laugh.  “And now, if we are to see the world in a month, there is no time to lose.  Let us begin with the Hardtwald.”