“I will pretend to be poor—­indeed, I am poor.  I have nothing.  If it were not for my cousin, I could not even profess to follow Art.”

“What a pity,” she said, “that you are rich!  Lala Roy was rich once.”

Arnold repressed an inclination to desire that Lala Roy might be kept out of the conversation.

“But he gave up all his wealth and has been happy, and a philosopher, ever since.”

“I can’t give up my wealth, Iris, because I haven’t got any—­I owe my cousin everything.  But for her, I should never even have known you.”

He watched her at her work in the morning when she sat patiently answering questions, working out problems, and making papers.  She showed him the letters of her pupils, exacting, excusing, petulant—­sometimes dissatisfied and even ill-tempered, he watched her in the afternoon while she sewed or read.  In the evening he sat with her while the two old men played their game of chess.  Regularly every evening at half-past nine the Bengalee checkmated Mr. Emblem.  Up to that hour he amused himself with his opponent, formed ingenious combinations, watched openings, and gradually cleared the board until he found himself as the hour of half-past nine drew near, able to propose a simple problem to his own mind, such as, “White moves first, to mate in three, four, or five moves,” and then he proceeded to solve that problem, and checkmated his adversary.

No one, not even Iris, knew how Lala Roy lived, or what he did in the daytime.  It was rumored that he had been seen at Simpson’s in the Strand, but this report wanted confirmation.  He had lived in Mr. Emblem’s second floor for twenty years; he always paid his bills with regularity, and his long spare figure and white mustache and fez were as well known in Chelsea as any red-coated lounger among the old veterans of the Hospital.

“It is quiet for you in the evenings,” said Arnold.

“I play to them sometimes.  They like to hear me play during the game.  Look at them.”

She sat down and played.  She had a delicate touch, and played soft music, such as soothes, not excites the soul.  Arnold watched her, not the old men.  How was it that refinement, grave, self-possession, manners, and the culture of a lady, could be found in one who knew no ladies?  But then Arnold did not know Lala Roy, nor did he understand the old bookseller.

“You are always wondering about me,” she said, talking while she played; “I see it in your eyes.  Can you not take me as I am, without thinking why I am different from other girls?  Of course I am different, because I know none of them.”

“I wish they were all like you,” he said.

“No; that would be a great pity.  You want girls who understand your own life, and can enter into your pursuits—­you want companions who can talk to you; go back to them, Arnold, as soon as you are tired of coming here.”