On calling at Earwaker’s chambers one February evening, Malkin became aware, from the very threshold of the outer door, that the domicile was not as he had known it. With the familiar fragrance of Earwaker’s special ‘mixture’ blended a suggestion of new upholstery. The little vestibule had somehow put off its dinginess, and an unwontedly brilliant light from the sitting-room revealed changes of the interior which the visitor remarked with frank astonishment.

‘What the deuce! Has it happened at last? Are you going to be married?’ he cried, staring about him at unrecognised chairs, tables, and bookcases, at whitened ceiling and pleasantly papered walls, at pictures and ornaments which he knew not.

The journalist shook his head, and smiled contentedly.

‘An idea that came to me all at once. My editorship seemed to inspire it.’

After a year of waiting upon Providence, Earwaker had received the offer of a substantial appointment much more to his taste than those he had previously held. He was now literary editor of a weekly review which made no kind of appeal to the untaught multitude.

‘I have decided to dwell here for the rest of my life,’ he added, looking round the walls. ‘One must have a homestead, and this shall be mine; here I have set up my penates. It’s a portion of space, you know; and what more can be said of Longleat or Chatsworth? A house I shall never want, because I shall never have a wife. And on the whole I prefer this situation to any other. I am well within reach of everything urban that I care about, and as for the country, that is too good to be put to common use; let it be kept for holiday. There’s an atmosphere in the old Inns that pleases me. The new flats are insufferable. How can one live sandwiched between a music-hall singer and a female politician? For lodgings of any kind no sane man had ever a word of approval. Reflecting on all these things, I have established myself in perpetuity.’

‘Just what I can’t do,’ exclaimed Malkin, flinging himself into a broad, deep, leather-covered chair. ‘Yet I have leanings that way. Only a few days ago I sat for a whole evening with the map of England open before me, wondering where would be the best place to settle down—a few years hence, I mean, you know; when Bella is old enough.—That reminds me. Next Sunday is her birthday, and do you know what? I wish you’d go down to Wrotham with me.’

‘Many thanks, but I think I had better not.’

‘Oh, but do! I want you to see how Bella is getting on. She’s grown wonderfully since you saw her in Paris—an inch taller, I should think. I don’t go down there very often, you know, so I notice these changes. Really, I think no one could be more discreet than I am, under the circumstances. A friend of the family; that’s all. Just dropping in for a casual cup of tea now and then. Sunday will be a special occasion, of course. I say, what are your views about early marriage? Do you think seventeen too young?’

‘I should think seven-and-twenty much better.’

Malkin broke into fretfulness.

‘Let me tell you, Earwaker, I don’t like the way you habitually speak of this project of mine. Plainly, I don’t like it. It’s a very serious matter indeed—eh? What? Why are you smiling?’

‘I agree with you as to its seriousness.’

‘Yes, yes; but in a very cynical and offensive way. It makes me confoundedly uncomfortable, let me tell you. I don’t think that’s very friendly on your part. And the fact is, if it goes on I’m very much afraid we shan’t see so much of each other as we have done. I like you, Earwaker, and I respect you; I think you know that. But occasionally you seem to have too little regard for one’s feelings. No, I don’t feel able to pass it over with a joke.—There! The deuce take it! I’ve bitten off the end of my pipe.’

He spat out a piece of amber, and looked ruefully at the broken stem.

‘Take a cigar,’ said Earwaker, fetching a box from a cupboard.

‘I don’t mind.—Well—what was I saying? Oh yes; I was quarrelling with you. Now, look here, what fault have you to find with Bella Jacox?’

‘None whatever. She seemed to me a very amiable child.’

‘Child! Pooh! pshaw! And fifteen next Sunday, I tell you. She’s a young lady, and to tell you the confounded plain truth, I’m in love with her. I am, and there’s nothing to be ashamed of. If you smile, we shall quarrel. I warn you, Earwaker, we shall quarrel.’

The journalist, instead of smiling, gave forth his deepest laugh. Malkin turned very red, scowled, and threw his cigar aside.

‘You really wish me to go on Sunday?’ Earwaker asked, in a pleasant voice.

The other’s countenance immediately cleared.

‘I shall take it as a great kindness. Mrs. Jacox will be delighted. Meet me at Holborn Viaduct at 1.25. No, to make sure I’ll come here at one o’clock.’

In a few minutes he was chatting as unconcernedly as ever.

‘Talking of settling down, my brother Tom and his wife are on the point of going to New Zealand. Necessity of business; may be out there for the rest of their lives. Do you know that I shall think very seriously of following them some day? With Bella, you know. The fact of the matter is, I don’t believe I could ever make a solid home in England. Why, I can’t quite say; partly, I suppose, because I have nothing to do. Now there’s a good deal to be said for going out to the colonies. A man feels that he is helping the spread of civilisation; and that’s something, you know. I should compare myself with the Greek and Roman colonists—something inspiriting in that thought—what? Why shouldn’t I found a respectable newspaper, for instance? Yes, I shall think very seriously of this.’

‘You wouldn’t care to run over with your relatives, just to have a look?’

‘It occurred to me,’ Malkin replied, thoughtfully. ‘But they sail in ten days, and—well, I’m afraid I couldn’t get ready in time. And then I’ve promised to look after some little affairs for Mrs. Jacox—some trifling money matters. But later in the year—who knows?’

Earwaker half repented of his promise to visit the Jacox household, but there was no possibility of excusing himself. So on Sunday he journeyed with his friend down to Wrotham. Mrs. Jacox and her children were very comfortably established in a small new house. When the companions entered they found the mother alone in her sitting-room, and she received them with an effusiveness very distasteful to Earwaker.

‘Now you shouldn’t!’ was her first exclamation to Malkin. ‘Indeed you shouldn’t! It’s really very naughty of you. O Mr. Earwaker! Who ever took so much pleasure in doing kindnesses? Do look at this beautiful book that Mr. Malkin has sent as a present to my little Bella. O Mr. Earwaker!’

The journalist was at once struck with her tone and manner as she addressed Malkin. He remarked that phrase, ‘my little Bella’, and it occurred to him that Mrs. Jacox had been growing younger since he made her acquaintance on the towers of Notre Dame. When the girls presented themselves, they also appeared to him more juvenile; Bella, in particular, was dressed with an exaggeration of childishness decidedly not becoming. One had but to look into her face to see that she answered perfectly to Malkin’s description; she was a young lady, and no child. A very pretty young lady, moreover; given to colouring, but with no silly simper; intelligent about the eyes and lips; modest, in a natural and sweet way. He conversed with her, and in doing so was disagreeably affected by certain glances she occasionally cast towards her mother. One would have said that she feared censure, though it was hard to see why.

On the return journey Earwaker made known some of his impressions, though not all.

‘I like the girls,’ he said, ‘Bella especially. But I can’t say much good of their mother.’

They were opposite each other in the railway carriage. Malkin leaned forward with earnest, anxious face.

‘That’s my own trouble,’ he whispered. ‘I’m confoundedly uneasy about it. I don’t think she’s bringing them up at all in a proper way. Earwaker, I would pay down five thousand pounds for the possibility of taking Bella away altogether.’

The other mused.

‘But, mind you,’ pursued Malkin, ‘she’s not a bad woman. By no means! Thoroughly good-hearted I’m convinced; only a little weak here.’ He tapped his forehead. ‘I respect her, for all she has suffered, and her way of going through it. But she isn’t the ideal mother, you know.’

On his way home, Malkin turned into his friend’s chambers ‘for five minutes’. At two in the morning he was still there, and his talk in the meanwhile had been of nothing but schemes for protecting Bella against her mother’s more objectionable influences. On taking leave, he asked:

‘Any news of Peak yet?’

‘None. I haven’t seen Moxey for a long time.’

‘Do you think Peak will look you up again, if he’s in London?’

‘No, I think he’ll keep away. And I half hope he will; I shouldn’t quite know how to behave. Ten to one he’s in London now. I suppose he couldn’t stay at Exeter. But he may have left England.’

They parted, and for a week did not see each other. Then, on Monday evening, when Earwaker was very busy with a mass of manuscript, the well-known knock sounded from the passage, and Malkin received admission. The look he wore was appalling, a look such as only some fearful catastrophe could warrant.

‘Are you busy?’ he asked, in a voice very unlike his own.

Earwaker could not doubt that the trouble was this time serious. He abandoned his work, and gave himself wholly to his friend’s service.

‘An awful thing has happened,’ Malkin began. ‘How the deuce shall I tell you? Oh, the ass I have made of myself! But I couldn’t help it; there seemed no way out of it.’

‘Well? What?’

‘It was last night, but I couldn’t come to you till now. By Jove! I veritably thought of sending you a note, and then killing myself. Early this morning I was within an ace of suicide. Believe me, old friend. This is no farce.’

‘I’m waiting.’

‘Yes, yes; but I can’t tell you all at once. Sure you’re not busy? I know I pester you. I was down at Wrotham yesterday. I hadn’t meant to go, but the temptation was too strong. I got there at five o’clock, and found that the girls were gone to have tea with some young friends. Well, I wasn’t altogether sorry; it was a good opportunity for a little talk with their mother. And I had the talk. But, oh, ass that I was!’

He smote the side of his head savagely.

‘Can you guess, Earwaker? Can you give a shot at what happened?’

‘Perhaps I might,’ replied the other, gravely.

‘Well?’

‘That woman asked you to marry her.’

Malkin leapt from his chair, and sank back again.

‘It came to that. Yes, upon my word, it came to that. She said she had fallen in love with me—that was the long and short of it. And I had never said a word that could suggest—Oh, confound it! What a frightful scene it was!’

‘You took a final leave of her?’

Malkin stared with eyes of anguish into his friend’s face, and at length whispered thickly:

‘I said I would!’

‘What? Take leave?’

‘Marry her!’

Earwaker had much ado to check an impatiently remonstrant laugh. He paused awhile, then began his expostulation, at first treating the affair as too absurd for grave argument.

‘My boy,’ he concluded, ‘you have got into a preposterous scrape, and I see only one way out of it. You must flee. When does your brother start for the Antipodes?’

‘Thursday morning.’

‘Then you go with him; there’s an end of it.’

Malkin listened with the blank, despairing look of a man condemned to death.

‘Do you hear me?’ urged the other. ‘Go home and pack. On Thursday I’ll see you off.’

‘I can’t bring myself to that,’ came in a groan from Malkin. ‘I’ve never yet done anything to be seriously ashamed of, and I can’t run away after promising marriage. It would weigh upon me for the rest of my life.’

‘Humbug! Would it weigh upon you less to marry the mother, and all the time be in love with the daughter? To my mind, there’s something peculiarly loathsome in the suggestion.’

‘But, look here; Bella is very young, really very young indeed. It’s possible that I have deluded myself. Perhaps I don’t really care for her in the way I imagined. It’s more than likely that I might be content to regard her with fatherly affection.’

‘Even supposing that, with what sort of affection do you regard Mrs Jacox?’

Malkin writhed on his chair before replying.

‘You mustn’t misjudge her!’ he exclaimed. ‘She is no heartless schemer. The poor thing almost cried her eyes out. It was a frightful scene. She reproached herself bitterly. What could I do? I have a tenderness for her, there’s no denying that. She has been so vilely used, and has borne it all so patiently. How abominable it would be if I dealt her another blow!’

The journalist raised his eyebrows, and uttered inarticulate sounds.

‘Was anything said about Bella?’ he asked, abruptly.