a corner, of Mr. Coppin drinking his health in the remains of sparkling
limado, of Brothers Frank and Percy, one on each side trying to borrow
simultaneously half-crowns, and of Muriel, flushed but demure, making
bread-pellets and throwing them in an abstracted way, one by one, at
the Coppin cat, which had wandered in on the chance of fish.

Out of the chaos, as he stood looking at them with his mouth open, came
the word "bans," and smote him like a blast of East wind.

It is not necessary to trace in detail Roland's mental processes from
that moment till the day when he applied to Mr. Fineberg for a
reduction of salary. It is enough to say that for quite a month he was
extraordinarily happy. To a man who has had nothing to do with women,
to be engaged is an intoxicating experience, and at first life was one
long golden glow to Roland. Secretly, like all mild men, he had always
nourished a desire to be esteemed a nut by his fellow men; and his
engagement satisfied that desire. It was pleasant to hear Brothers
Frank and Percy cough knowingly when he came in. It was pleasant to
walk abroad with a girl like Muriel in the capacity of the accepted
wooer. Above all, it was pleasant to sit holding Muriel's hand and
watching the ill-concealed efforts of Mr. Albert Potter to hide his
mortification. Albert was a mechanic in the motor-works round the
corner, and hitherto Roland had always felt something of a worm in his
presence. Albert was so infernally strong and silent and efficient. He
could dissect a car and put it together again. He could drive through
the thickest traffic. He could sit silent in company without having his
silence attributed to shyness or imbecility. But--he could not get
engaged to Muriel Coppin. That was reserved for Roland Bleke, the nut,
the dasher, the young man of affairs. It was all very well being able
to tell a spark-plug from a commutator at sight, but when it came to a