But it happened one day that, as he was in the act of drawing his poor
little quarterly salvage at the Bank of England, a lady saw him and knew
him. It was Mr. Charman's widow.

'Why, Mr. Tymperley, what _has_ become of you all this time? Why have I
never heard from you? Is it true, as some one told me, that you have been
living abroad?'

So utterly was he disconcerted, that in a mechanical way he echoed the
lady's last word: 'Abroad.'

'But why didn't you write to us?' pursued Mrs. Charman, leaving him no time
to say more. 'How very unkind! Why did you go away without a word? My
daughter says that we must have unconsciously offended you in some way. Do
explain! Surely there can't have been anything'

'My dear Mrs. Charman, it is I alone who am to blame. I...the explanation
is difficult; it involves a multiplicity of detail. I beg you to interpret
my unjustifiable behaviour as--as pure idiosyncrasy.'

'Oh, you must come and see me. You know that Ada's married? Yes, nearly a
year ago. How glad she will be to see you again. So often she has spoken of
you. When can you dine? To-morrow?'

'With pleasure--with great pleasure.'

'Delightful!'

She gave her address, and they parted.