Richard felt very sanguine of success during the first weeks of his stay in London.  He was young, ardent, active, and a good sailor.  Some employment would be easily obtained, he thought, in the merchant service; and he only stipulated mentally for one thing ­no matter how low was his beginning, he must have something to look forward to in the future ­he must be able to rise.  But as the days glided into weeks, and the weeks into months, he was obliged to own that it was not so easy to find an opening as he had expected, and night after night he returned to his solitary lodgings weary and disheartened.

Mrs Fiddison sighed, and said he was very nice ­so quiet; her place did not seem the same.  And certainly the young fellow was very quiet, spending a great deal of his time in writing and thinking; and more than once he caught himself watching the opposite window, and wondering what connexion there could be between Vanleigh and his neighbours.

This watching led to his meeting the soft dark eyes of Netta, as she busied herself at times over her flowers, watering them carefully, removing dead leaves and blossoms, and evidently tending them with the love of one who longs for the sweet breath of the country.

Then came a smile and a bow, and Netta shrank away from the window, and Richard did not see her for a week.

Then she was there again, showing herself timidly, and as their eyes met the how was given, and returned this time before the poor girl shrank away; and as days passed on this little intercourse grew regular, till it was a matter of course for Richard to look out at a certain hour for his pretty neighbour, and she would be there.

This went on till she would grow bold enough to sit there close to the flowers, her sad face just seen behind the little group of leaves and blossoms; and, glad of the companionship, Richard got in the habit of drawing his table to the open window, and read or wrote there, to look up occasionally and exchange a smile.

“I don’t see why I shouldn’t know more of them,” he said to himself, one morning; and the next time a donkey-drawn barrow laden with Covent Garden sweets passed, Richard bought a couple of pots of lush-blossomed geraniums, delivered them to Mrs Jenkles, and sent them to Miss Lane, with his hope that she was in better health.

Mrs Jenkles took the pots gladly, but shook her head at the donor.

“Is she so ill?” said Richard, anxiously.

“I’m afraid so, sir,” said Mrs Jenkles.  “Her cough is so bad.”

As she spoke, plainly enough heard from the upper room came the painful endorsement of the woman’s words.

Richard went across the way thoughtfully; and as he looked from his place a few minutes after, it was to see his plants placed in the best position in the window; and he caught a grateful look directed at him by his little neighbour, “Poor girl!” said Richard.

A very strange feeling of depression came over him as his thoughts went from her to one he loved; and he sighed as he sat making comparisons between them.

An hour after, Mrs Fiddison came in, with her head on one side, a widow’s cap in one hand, a crape bow in the other, and a note in her mouth, which gave her a good deal the look of a mourning spaniel, set to fetch and carry.

Mrs Fiddison did not speak, only dropped the note on the table, gave Richard a very meaning look, and left the roam.

“What does the woman mean?” he said, as he took up the note.  “And what’s this?”

“This” was a simple little note from Netta Lane, written in a ladylike hand, and well worded, thanking him for the flowers, and telling him that “mamma” was very grateful to him for the attention.

A week after, and Richard had called upon them; and again before a week had elapsed, he was visiting regularly, and sitting reading to mother and daughter as they plied their needles.

Then came walks, and an occasional ride into the country, and soon afterwards Frank Pratt called upon his old friend, to find him leading Netta quietly into the Jenkles’s house, and Pratt stood whistling for a moment before knocking at Mrs Fiddison’s door, and asking leave to wait till his friend came across.

Mrs Fiddison had a widow’s cap cocked very rakishly over one ear, and she further disarranged it to rub the ear as she examined the visitor, before feeling satisfied that he had no designs on any of the property in the place, and admitting him to Richard’s sanctum.

At the end of half an hour Richard came over.

“Ah, Franky!” he exclaimed, “this is a pleasure.”

“Is it?” said Pratt.

“Is it? ­of course it is; but what are you staring at?”

“You.  Seems a nice girl over the way.”

“Poor darling! ­yes,” said Richard, earnestly.

“Got as far as that, has it?” said Pratt, quietly.

“I don’t understand you,” said Richard, staring hard.

“Suppose not,” said Pratt, bitterly.  “Way of the world; though I didn’t expect to see it in you.”

“`Rede me this riddle,’ as Carlyle says,” exclaimed Richard.  “What do you mean, man?”

“Only that it’s as well to be off with the old love before you begin with the new.”

“Why, Franky, what a donkey you are!” said Richard, laughing.  “You don’t think that I ­that they ­that ­that ­well, that I am paying attentions to that young lady ­Miss Lane?”

“Well, it looks like it,” said Pratt, grimly.

“Why, my dear boy, nothing has ever been farther from my thoughts,” said Richard.  “It’s absurd.”

“Does the young lady think so too?”

Richard started.

“Well, really ­I never looked at it in that light.  But, oh, it’s ridiculous.  Only a few neighbourly attentions; and, besides, the poor girl’s in a most precarious state of health.”

“Hum!” said Pratt.  “Well, don’t make the girl think you mean anything.  Who are they?”

“I asked no questions, of course ­how could I?  They are quite ladies, though, in a most impecunious state.”

“Hum!” said Frank, thoughtfully, and he rose from his chair to make himself comfortable after his way; that is to say, he placed his feet in the seat, and sat on the back ­treatment at which Mrs Fiddison’s modest furniture groaned.  “Old lady object to this?”

Frank tapped the case of his big pipe, as he drew it from his pocket in company with a vile-scented tobacco pouch.

“Oh no, I’m licenced,” said Richard, dreamily; for his thoughts were upon his friend’s words, and he felt as if he had unwittingly been doing a great wrong.

“I’m going to take this up, Dick,” said Pratt, after smoking a few minutes in silence.

“Take what up?” said Richard, starting.

“This affair of yours, and these people.”

“I don’t understand you.”

“Perhaps not,” said Pratt, shortly.  “But look here, Dick, you’re not going to break faith with some one.”

“Break faith, Frank!” exclaimed Richard, angrily.  “There is no engagement now.  The poor girl is free till I have made such a fortune” ­he smiled bitterly ­“as will enable me once more to propose.  There, there, don’t say another word, Franky, old man, it cuts ­deeper than you think.  I wouldn’t say this much to another man living.  But as for that poor child over the way, I have never had a thought towards her beyond pity.”

“Which is near akin to love,” muttered Frank.  Then aloud ­“All right, Dick.  I could not help noticing it; but be careful.  Little girls’ hearts are made of tender stuff ­some of them,” he said, speaking ruefully ­“when they are touched by fine, tall, good-looking fellows.”

“Pish!” ejaculated Richard.  “Change the subject.”

“Going to,” said Pratt, filling his pipe afresh, and smoking once more furiously.  “Better open that window, these pokey rooms so soon get full.  That’s right.  Now, then, for a change.  Look here, old fellow, you know I’m going ahead now, actually refusing briefs.  Do you hear, you unbelieving-looking dog? ­refusing briefs, and only taking the best cases.”

“Bravo!” said Richard, trying to smile cheerily.

“I’m getting warm, Dick ­making money.  Q.C. some day, my boy ­perhaps.  But seriously, Dick, old fellow, I am going ahead at a rate that surprises no one more than yours truly.  When I’d have given my ears for a good case, and would have studied it night and day, the beggars wouldn’t have given me one to save my life, even if I’d have done it for nothing.  Now, when I’m so pressed that it’s hard work to get them up, they come and beg me to take briefs.  This very morning, one came from a big firm of solicitors at ten o’clock, marked fifty guineas, and I refused it.  At one o’clock, hang me if they didn’t come back with it, marked a hundred, and a fellow with it, hat in hand, ready, if I’d refused again, to offer me more.”

“Frank,” cried Richard, jumping up, and shaking his friend warmly by the hand, “no one is more delighted than I am.”

“Mind what you’re up to,” said Pratt, who had nearly been tilted off his perch by his friend’s energy.  “But I say, it don’t seem like it.”

“Why?”

“Because you won’t share in it.  Now, look here, Dick, old fellow, you must want money, and it’s too bad that you won’t take it.”

“I don’t want it, Frank ­I don’t, indeed,” cried Richard, hastily.  “Living as I do, I have enough and to spare.  I tell you, I like the change.”

“Gammon,” said Pratt, shortly.  “It’s very well to talk about liking to be poor, and no one knows what poverty is better than I; but I like money as well as most men.  I used to eat chaff, Dick; but I like corn, and wine, and oil, and honey better.  Now, look here, Dick, once for all ­if you want money, and don’t come to me for it, you are no true friend.”

“Franky,” said Richard, turning away his face, “if ever I want money, I’ll come to you and ask for it.  As matters are, I have always a few shillings to spare.”

As he spoke, he got up hastily, lit a pipe, and began to smoke; while Mrs Fiddison in the next room, heaved a sigh, took off her shoes, and went on tiptoe through the little house, opening every door and window, after carefully covering up all her widows’ caps.

“There is one thing about noise,” she said to herself, “it don’t make the millinery smell.”

“I knocked off a few days ago,” said Frank, from out of a cloud.

“You are working too hard,” said Richard, anxiously.

“’Bliged to,” said Pratt.  “Took a change ­ran down to Cornwall.”

Richard started slightly, and smoked hard.

“Thought I’d have a look at the old place, Dick ­see how matters were going on.”

Silence on the part of Richard, and Pratt breathed more freely; for he had expected to be stopped.

“First man I ran against was that Mervyn, along with the chap who was upset in the cab accident in Pall Mall, and gave you his card ­a Mr John Barnard, solicitor, in Furnival’s Inn ­cousin or something of Mervyn’s ­knew me by sight, and somehow we got to be very sociable.  Don’t much like Mervyn, though.  Good sort of fellow all the same ­ charitable, and so on.”

Richard smoked his pipe in silence longing to hear more of his old home, though every word respecting it came like a stab.

“Heard all about Penreife,” continued Pratt, talking in a careless, matter-of-fact way.  “Our friend Humphrey is being courted, it seems, by everybody.  Half the county been to call upon him, and congratulate him on his rise.  I expected to find the fellow off his head when I saw him; but he was just the same ­begged me to condescend to come and stay with him, which of course I didn’t, and as good as told me he was horribly bored, and anything but happy.”

There was a pause here, filled up by smoking.

“The old people are still there, and they say the new owner’s very kind to them; but our little friend Polly’s away at a good school, where she is to stay till the wedding.  Humphrey wants to see you.”

Richard winced.

“Asked me to try and bring about a meeting, and sent all sorts of kind messages.”

Richard remained silent.

“Says he feels like as if he had deprived you of your birthright; and as for the people about, they say, Dick,” ­Pratt paused for a few moments to light his pipe afresh ­“they say, Dick, that you acted like a fool.”

Richard faced round quietly, and looked straight at his friend.

“Do you think, Frank, that I acted like a fool?”

Pratt smoked for a moment or two, then he turned one of his fingers into a tobacco stopper, and lastly removed his pipe.

“Well, speaking as counsel, whose opinion is that you ought to have waited, and left the matter to the law to sift, I say yes.”

“But speaking as my old friend, Frank Pratt,” said Richard, “and as an honest man?”

“Well, we won’t discuss that,” said Frank, hopping off his perch.  “Good-bye, old chap.”

He shook hands hastily, and left the house, glancing up once at Sam Jenkles’s upper window, and then, without appearing to notice him, taking a side glance at Barney of the black muzzle, who was making a meal off a scrap of hay, with his shoulders lending polish to a public-house board at the corner.

“There’s some little game being played up here,” said Frank to himself.  “I’ll have a talk to Barnard.”