for his going away, genially eluding every attempt to obtain an
explanation, and at the last abounding in graceful recognition of all
that had been done for him. Mr. Jordan shrank from dispute, hated every
sort of contention; this characteristic gave a certain refinement to his
otherwise commonplace existence. Vulgar vanity would have displayed
itself in precisely the acts and words from which his self-esteem
nervously shrank. And of late he had been thinking over the list of
landladies, with a half-formed desire to settle down, to make himself a
permanent home. Doubtless as a result of this state of mind, he betook
himself to a strange house, where, as from neutral ground, he might
reflect upon the lodgings he knew, and judge between their merits. He
could not foresee what awaited him under Mrs. Elderfield's roof; the
event impressed him as providential; he felt, with singular emotion,
that choice was taken out of his hands. Lodgings could not be more than
perfect, and such he had found.

It was not his habit to chat with landladies. At times he held forth to
them on some topic of interest, suavely, instructively; if he gave in to
their ordinary talk, it was with a half-absent smile of condescension.
Mrs. Elderfield seeming as little disposed to gossip as himself, a month
elapsed before he knew anything of her history; but one evening the
reserve on both sides was broken. His landlady modestly inquired whether
she was giving satisfaction, and Mr. Jordan replied with altogether
unwonted fervour. In the dialogue that ensued, they exchanged personal
confidences. The widow had lost her husband four years ago; she came
from the Midlands, but had long dwelt in London. Then fell from her lips
a casual remark which made the hearer uneasy.

'I don't think I shall always stay here. The neighbourhood is too
crowded. I should like to have a house somewhere further out.'