It came in reply to the natural question where he was residing.

'At present'--he smiled fatuously--'I inhabit a bed-sitting-room in a
little street up at Islington.'

Dead silence followed. Eyes of wonder were fixed upon him. But for those
eyes, who knows what confession Mr. Tymperley might have made? As it was...

'I said, Mrs. Charman, that I had to confess to an eccentricity. I hope it
won't shock you. To be brief, I have devoted my poor energies to social
work. I live among the poor, and as one of them, to obtain knowledge that
cannot be otherwise procured.'

'Oh, how noble!' exclaimed the hostess.

The poor gentleman's conscience smote him terribly. He could say no more.
To spare his delicacy, his friends turned the conversation. Then or
afterwards, it never occurred to them to doubt the truth of what he had
said. Mrs. Charman had seen him transacting business at the Bank of
England, a place not suggestive of poverty; and he had always passed for a
man somewhat original in his views and ways. Thus was Mr. Tymperley
committed to a singular piece of deception, a fraud which could not easily
be discovered, and which injured only its perpetrator.

Since then about a year had elapsed. Mr. Tymperley had seen his friends
perhaps half a dozen times, his enjoyment of their society pathetically
intense, but troubled by any slightest allusion to his mode of life. It had
come to be understood that he made it a matter of principle to hide his
light under a bushel, so he seldom had to take a new step in positive
falsehood. Of course he regretted ceaselessly the original deceit, for Mrs.