set teeth or a sneer. Nor was the bitterness of the kind sown in proud hearts by capricious circumstance and crushing but not dishonourable defeat. It was rather the Dead Sea fruit of wilful riot and a contemptible, impenitent remorse. And yet in the full brown eye and lifted chin, as in the ill-clad, well-carried figure, there was a lingering something that was gallant and fine and debonair; as if the makings of angel or of devil still lurked beneath that crumpled kerseymere waistcoat and those faded blue swallow-tails.
To this lost youth the door in Rolls Buildings was opened by a grey-haired woman who nodded knowingly in response to an inquiry for letters, and handed one over with an invitation to enter and read it within. But the kindly words fell on inattentive ears. Looking fondly and yet fearfully at the superscription—to Thomas Erichsen, Esquire, and the rest—the needy owner of that name suddenly pocketed his letter with unbroken seals. He was turning as abruptly away when the blank face of his former landlady led him to pause a moment.
"No; bless you, no! it's not from him," said Erichsen, grimly. "This is from a friend I met yesterday, who would insist on having my address. What was I to do? I thought you wouldn't mind, so I gave my last.”
"Mind! It is your address, and might be your 'ome if you wasn’t that 'igh and 'aughty. Dear, dear, dear! so you’ve not heard from that villain yet?"
"Not a line."
"Nor of him?"
"Not a word. Give me time. If I don't root him out by this day month—well, then he's fled the country—like a sensible man."
