be at the seaside.'

'The seaside?' echoed his companion, in surprise. 'Ah, it's a long time
since I saw the sea, Mr. Goldthorpe. Why, it must be--yes, it is at least
twenty years.'

'Really? I've been there every year of my life till this. One gets into the
way of thinking of luxuries as necessities. I tell you what it is. If I
sell my book as soon as it's done, we'll have a few days somewhere on the
south coast together.'

Mr. Spicer betrayed uneasiness.

'I should like it much,' he murmured, 'but I fear, Mr. Goldthorpe, I
greatly fear I can't afford it.'

'Oh, but I mean that you shall go with me as my guest! But for you, Mr.
Spicer, I might never have got my book written at all.'

'I feel it an honour, sir, I assure you, to have a literary man in my
house,' was the genial reply. 'And you think the _work_ will soon be
finished, sir?'

Mr. Spicer always spoke of his tenant's novel as 'the work'--which on his
lips had a very large and respectful sound.

'About a fortnight more,' answered Goldthorpe with grave intensity.

The heat continued. As he lay awake before getting up, eager to finish his
book, yet dreading the torrid temperature of his room, which made the brain