day before us, and the night, too, for that matter. You'll be all the better for being quiet a little. I can see that."
Martin's pleasant-toned voice, and quiet, winning way—half-playful, half-serious—had all the tranquillising effects he contemplated they should have upon his friend. Wilford was soon stretched upon the sofa, holding a lighted cigar to his lips. He had yielded to the plan which treated him almost as an invalid. Indeed, Martin's tone, while it was undoubtedly considerate and tender, had yet in it an authority and decision which did not admit of denial, and Wilford was hardly conscious himself how immediately he had given way to Martin's will.
"I am afraid I trouble you greatly, Martin, coming in here at this hour of the day, lounging and smoking. and making both of us idle."
"Don't talk of such a thing. Do you fancy that idleness isn't pleasant? Do you think one isn't very glad of an excuse for doing nothing? You're not inconveniencing me. For publishers and printers I don't feel called upon to answer. And why should I trouble myself about their affairs? They don't give me a share in their profits. I wish they did."
"But I am really keeping you from work."
"And I am really grateful to you for doing so. There, have I said enough? In truth I am in no humour for work to-day. I got up with a positive loathing for pens, ink, and paper, and I was nearly invoking a curse upon Caxton for inventing printing. Unreasonable, of course, since I get my living by it. But I can't work this morning. I'm like King Richard, 'not in the vein,' especially as you have dropped in for a chat."
"I feel that you are only saying all this out of kindness for me, Martin."
"Well, and suppose that is so," said Martin, laughing, "you ought to be polite enough not to see it! Are you going about inquiring into the reality and soundness of men's virtues and good qualities generally? Are you going to return a verdict that mine are all hollow and sham? Let us say that I was going to be busy this morning; do you account me such a curmudgeon of my time that I cannot give some of it up—all if need be—to you, or any friend that may make a call upon it? Nonsense, Wil. Business may go—where it likes. You've come for a long talk, and I'm very glad of it; the longer the better; my time's yours, and always shall be. There are very few things I've got to give away, but I have that. And now—1 by degrees, mind, and without the slightest hurry—for indeed there's no occasion for it—you shall tell me all about yourself, and how you are, and how Mrs. Wilford is, and how little Master, Wilford is, and what may be the latest nursery revelation with regard to him. Now, Sir, that's the programme. Smoke your cigar, gently and cosily, and begin when and where you like."
"You don't know how much good it does me to hear you talk like this, Martin."
"I intend it to do you some good."
"For, indeed, I have need of kindness. I am placed in a position of extreme pain. I hardly know which way to turn; what to do. I have every need of kindness and support, consideration and good counsel."
"Is this sanity?" Martin asked himself.
"I have been suffering torture of late. While I have much, I know, to thank myself for, I yet seem to be the victim of a conspiracy—of, indeed, absolute persecution on the part of others."
"Surely this is monomania!" Martin murmured.
"I have much to tell you, and yet I have a difficulty in beginning."
"The difficulty has been felt by others—it is always difficult to begin. But the difficulty is half imaginary. It doesn't really matter; begin anywhere; take up what thread you will of the story, we'll weave all into shape and meaning afterwards."
Wilford paused a few moments, lost in thought.
"Martin," he said at length, "a man is guilty of many follies in the course of his life. "
"I have not a word to say against that proposition."
"Especially in his youth."
"Especially in his youth," Martin assented.
"Follies—sins—"
"The terms are almost convertible."
"Which he would not wish to be known to the rest of the world."
"Few biographies can afford to be really, wholly truthful. We can't print everything as it stands in the original manuscript. There must always be editing and revising, which mean altering and suppressing. if only on the public's account."
"Probably, Martin, you would not wish that the whole of your life should be known to all?"
"Certainly, Wil, I should not; though it may be that I am no worse than my neighbours. But I concede that I am not an angel, and that the whole of my life has not been conducted upon angelic principles. It is only to say that I am a man, to signify that I have been and am, for that matter, periodically a fool. We can only hope to grow wiser and better as we grow older. Most men of our age can cordially acquiesce in the axiom, that at twenty-one we were all decided fools: it would be a matter of congratulation if we could be quite sure that we are less foolish now than we were then. But to what is this philosophical inquiry to lead us?"
"And the reason for this desire for concealment," Wilford went on, without remark upon the question, "is it not because disclosure would make one seem less worthy in the eyes of others? Because one would by it forfeit much of the esteem and regard of one's family and friends?"
"Certainly those are good motives for concealment."
"And especially of the concealment of—"
Wilford paused, as though in search of a word.
"Let us say 'indiscretions,'" suggested Martin. "The word is a mild one, but society has agreed that it shall, if need be, bear a strong and wide significance."
"Of the concealment of indiscretions from the knowledge of one's wife."
Martin started a little at this. He abandoned the tone of banter in which he had been inclined