his door, he found lying outside a tray, with the materials of a breakfast
reduced to its lowest terms: half a pint of milk, bread, butter. At nine
o'clock he went downstairs, tapped civilly at the door of the front
parlour, and by an untuned voice was bidden enter. The room was occupied by
an oldish man and a girl, addressing themselves to the day's work of plain
bookbinding.

'Good morning to you, sir,' said Mr. Tymperley, bending his head. 'Good
morning, Miss Suggs. Bright! Sunny! How it cheers one!'

He stood rubbing his hands, as one might on a morning of sharp frost. The
bookbinder, with a dry nod for greeting, forthwith set Mr. Tymperley a
task, to which that gentleman zealously applied himself. He was learning
the elementary processes of the art. He worked with patience, and some show
of natural aptitude, all through the working hours of the day.

To this pass had things come with Mr. Tymperley, a gentleman of Berkshire,
once living in comfort and modest dignity on the fruit of sound
investments. Schooled at Harrow, a graduate of Cambridge, he had meditated
the choice of a profession until it seemed, on the whole, too late to
profess anything at all; and, as there was no need of such exertion, he
settled himself to a life of innocent idleness, hard by the country-house
of his wealthy and influential friend, Mr. Charman. Softly the years flowed
by. His thoughts turned once or twice to marriage, but a profound
diffidence withheld him from the initial step; in the end, he knew himself
born for bachelorhood, and with that estate was content. Well for him had
he seen as clearly the delusiveness of other temptations! In an evil moment
he listened to Mr. Charman, whose familiar talk was of speculation, of
companies, of shining percentages. Not on his own account was Mr. Tymperley
lured: he had enough and to spare; but he thought of his sister, married to