kind of woman who lived by sacrifice--one who had far rather lead a life
disagreeable to herself than change it at the cost of discomfort to her
husband? This view of the matter irritated Pomfret, and he broke into
objurgations, directed partly against Mrs. Keeting, partly against
Christopherson. It was an 'infernal shame,' that was all he could say. And
after all, I rather inclined to his opinion.

When two or three days had passed, curiosity drew me towards the
Christophersons' dwelling. Walking along the opposite side of the street, I
looked up at their window, and there was the face of the old bibliophile.
Evidently he was standing at the window in idleness, perhaps in trouble. At
once he beckoned to me; but before I could knock at the house-door he had
descended, and came out.

'May I walk a little way with you?' he asked.

There was worry on his features. For some moments we went on in silence.

'So you have changed your mind about leaving London?' I said, as if
carelessly.

'You have heard from Mr. Pomfret? Well--yes, yes--I think we shall stay
where we are--for the present.'

Never have I seen a man more painfully embarrassed. He walked with head
bent, shoulders stooping; and shuffled, indeed, rather than walked. Even so
might a man bear himself who felt guilty of some peculiar meanness.

Presently words broke from him.