a band about his tongue, woven by shyness or false shame, or social
timidity. He knows that he ought to speak; but the moment passes and
he has not spoken. And between him and the word unsaid there rises on
the instant a tiny streamlet of division, which is to grow and broaden
with the nights and days, till it flows, a stream of fate, not to be
turned back or crossed; and all the familiar fields of life are ruined
and blotted out.

Finally, as the great patron was going, Cuningham whispered a word in
his ear. Lord Findon turned to Fenwick.

'You're in this house, too? Have you anything you'd let me see?'

Fenwick, flushed and stammering, begged him to walk upstairs.
Cuningham's puzzled impression was that he gave the invitation
reluctantly, but could not make up his mind not to give it.

They marched upstairs, Lord Findon and Cuningham behind.

'Does he ever sell?' said Lord Findon, in Cuningham's ear, nodding
towards the broad shoulders and black head of Watson just in front.

'Not often,' said Cuningham, after a pause.

'How, then, does he afford himself?' said the other, smiling.

'Oh! he has means--just enough to keep him from starving. He's a dear
old fellow! He has too many ideas for this wicked world.'

Cuningham spoke with a pleasant loyalty. Lord Findon shrugged his