living at a wayside inn for about a week; he thought of moving on, and, as
I had nothing to do, suppose he came over for a few days to the village
where I was camped? I welcomed the proposal.

'There's an inn, I dare say? I like the little inns in this part of the
country. Dirty, of course, and the cooking hideous; but it's pleasant for a
change. I like to be awoke by the cock crowing, and to see the grubby
little window when I open my eyes.'

I began to suspect that he had come down in the world. Could his prosperity
have been due to Mrs. Treton? Had she carried off the money? He might
affect a liking for simple things when grandeur was no longer in his reach.
Yet I remembered that he had undoubtedly been botanising before he knew of
my approach, and such a form of pastime seemed to prove him sincere.

By chance I witnessed his arrival the next morning. He drove up in a
farmer's trap, his luggage a couple of large Gladstone-bags. That day and
the next we spent many hours together. His vanity, though not outgrown, was
in abeyance; he talked with easy frankness, yet never of what I much
desired to know, his own history and present position. It was his intellect
that he revealed to me. I gathered that he had given much time to study
during the past three years, and incidentally it came out that he had been
living abroad; his improved pronunciation of the names of French artists
was very noticeable. At his age--not less than forty-five--this advance
argued no common mental resources. Whether he had suffered much, I could
not determine; at present he seemed light-hearted enough.

Certainly there was no affectation in his pursuit of botany; again and
again I saw him glow with genuine delight when he had identified a plant.
After all, this might be in keeping with his character, for even in the old