Charman, a wealthy woman, might very well have assisted him to some not
undignified mode of earning his living. As it was, he had hit upon the idea
of making himself a bookbinder, a craft somewhat to his taste. For some
months he had lodged in the bookbinder's house; one day courage came to
him, and he entered into a compact with his landlord, whereby he was to pay
for instruction by a certain period of unremunerated work after he became
proficient. That stage was now approaching. On the whole, he felt much
happier than in the time of brooding idleness. He looked forward to the day
when he would have a little more money in his pocket, and no longer dread
the last fortnight of each quarter, with its supperless nights.

Mrs. Weare's invitation to Lucerne cost him pangs. Lucerne! Surely it was
in some former state of existence that he had taken delightful holidays as
a matter of course. He thought of the many lovely places he knew, and so
many dream-landscapes; the London streets made them infinitely remote,
utterly unreal. His three years of gloom and hardship were longer than all
the life of placid contentment that came before. Lucerne! A man of more
vigorous temper would have been maddened at the thought; but Mr. Tymperley
nursed it all day long, his emotions only expressing themselves in a little
sigh or a sadly wistful smile.

Having dined so well yesterday, he felt it his duty to expend less than
usual on to-day's meals. About eight o'clock in the evening, after a
meditative stroll in the air which he had so praised, he entered the shop
where he was wont to make his modest purchases. A fat woman behind the
counter nodded familiarly to him, with a grin at another customer. Mr.
Tymperley bowed, as was his courteous habit.

'Oblige me,' he said, 'with one new-laid egg, and a small, crisp lettuce.'