mill or a mangle—time sped along much as usual: it was in the pauses of life, the desolate hours when books and newspapers palled on the sated appetite, and when, thrown back upon one's own dreary musings, one strove—all in vain—to people the vacant air with the dear faces of absent friends, that the real bitterness of solitude made itself felt.
One evening, feeling my life a little more wearisome than usual, I strolled down to my Club, not so much with the hope of meeting any friend there, for London was now 'out of town,' as with the feeling that here, at least, I should hear 'sweet words of human speech,' and come into contact with human thought.
However, almost the first face I saw there was that of a friend. Eric Lindon was lounging, with rather a 'bored' expression of face, over a newspaper; and we fell into conversation with a mutual satisfaction which neither of us tried to conceal.
After a while I ventured to introduce what was just then the main subject of my thoughts. "And so the Doctor" (a name we had adopted by a tacit agreement, as a convenient com-
