breakfast if I answered him.

I looked at him curiously. Would he have anything to tell me
worth the money, or was he the common incapable--incapable even of
telling his own story? There was a quality of intelligence in his
forehead and eyes, and a certain tremulousness in his nether lip
that decided me.

"Very warm," said I; "but not too warm for us here."

"No," he said, still looking across the water, "it is pleasant
enough here . . . . just now."

"It is good," he continued after a pause, "to find anything so
restful as this in London. After one has been fretting about
business all day, about getting on, meeting obligations, and
parrying dangers, I do not know what one would do if it were not
for such pacific corners." He spoke with long pauses between the
sentences. "You must know a little of the irksome labour of the
world, or you would not be here. But I doubt if you can be so
brain-weary and footsore as I am . . . . Bah! Sometimes I doubt if
the game is worth the candle. I feel inclined to throw the whole
thing over--name, wealth and position--and take to some modest
trade. But I know if I abandoned my ambition--hardly as she uses
me--I should have nothing but remorse left for the rest of my
days."

He became silent. I looked at him in astonishment. If ever
I saw a man hopelessly hard-up it was the man in front of me. He
was ragged and he was dirty, unshaven and unkempt; he looked as