of the mystical joy or hope which sustain others in similar efforts; when he had scarcely a coat to his back, or a shoe to his feet; when his doctor began to talk of tuberculin tests and the high Alps; then he would wire to Duddon, and come and vegetate under Victoria’s wing, for just as many weeks as were necessary to send him back to London restored to a certain physical standard.  To watch Harry Tatham’s wholesome, kindly, prosperous life, untroubled by any of the nightmares that weighed upon his own, was an unfailing pleasure to a weary man.  He loved both Harry and his mother.  Nevertheless, as soon as he arrived, both felt him the gadfly in the house.  His mind was nothing if not critical.  And undoubtedly the sight of easy wealth was an irritation to him.  He struggled against it; but sometimes it would out.

As he sat this evening crouched over the fire, his hands spread to the blaze, he looked more frail than usual; a fact which perhaps, half-consciously, affected Victoria and drew out her confidence.  His dress suit, primevally old, would scarcely, she reflected, hold together another winter.  But how it was to be replaced had already cost her and Harry much thought.  There was nobody more personally, fanatically proud than Boden toward his well-to-do friends.  His clothes indeed were a matter of tender anxiety in the Duddon household, and Tatham’s valet and Victoria’s maids did him many small services, some of which he repaid with a smile and a word—­priceless to the recipient; and some he was never aware of.  When his visits to Duddon first began, the contents of his Gladstone bag used to provide merriment in the servants’ hall, and legend said that a young footman had once dared to be insolent to him.  Had any one ventured the same conduct now he would have been sent to Coventry by every servant in the house.

It was to this austere, incalculable, yet always attractive listener, that Victoria told the story of Harry and Lydia, of the Faversham adventure, and the Melrose inheritance.  If she wanted advice, a little moral guidance for herself—­and indeed she did want it—­she did not get any; but of comment there was plenty.

“That’s the girl I saw here last time,” mused Boden, nursing his knee—­“lovely creature—­with some mind in her face.  So she’s refused Harry—­and Duddon?”

“Which no doubt will commend her to you!” said Victoria, not without a certain bristling of her feathers.

“It does,” said Boden quietly.  “Upon my word, it was a fine thing to do.”

“Just because we happen to be rich?” Victoria’s eyelids fluttered a little.

“No! but because it throws a little light on what we choose to call the soul.  It brings one back to a faint belief in the existence of the thing.  Here is one of the great fortunes, and one of the splendid houses of the world, and a little painting girl who makes a few pounds by her drawings says ‘No, thank you!’ when they are laid at her feet—­because—­of a little trifle called love which she can’t bring to the bargain.  I confess that bucks one up.  ‘The day-star doth his beams restore.’”