his own work with work of a similar character written by well-known men, and his understanding became more complete.  He found in their work a touch of personality, a shade of self-consciousness about the description of even the most ordinary things.  The individuality of the writer and his subject were always blended.  In his own work, subject alone counted.  He had never learned any of the tricks of writing.  His prose consisted of the simple use of simple words.  His mind was empty of all inheritance of acquired knowledge.  He had no preconceived ideals, towards the realizations of which he should bend the things he saw.  He was simply a prophet of absolute truth.  If he had found in those days a literary godfather, he would, without doubt, have been presented to the world as a genius.

Then, with money in his pocket, clad once more in decent apparel, he made one more effort to do his duty.  He sent for Ellen and little Alfred to come up and see him.  He sent them a little extra money, and he wrote as kindly as possible.  He wanted to do the right thing; he was even anxious about it.  He determined that he would do his very best to bridge over that yawning gulf.  The gingerbread villa he absolutely could not face, so he met them at the Leicester Square Tube.

The moment they arrived, his heart sank.  They stepped out of the lift and looked around them.  Ellen’s hat seemed larger than ever, and was ornate with violent-colored flowers.  Her face was hidden behind a violet veil, and she wore a white feather boa, fragments of which reposed upon the lift man’s shoulder and little Alfred’s knickerbockers.  Her dress was of black velveteen, fitting a little tightly over her corsets, and showing several imperfectly removed stains and creases.  She wore tan shoes, one of which was down at the heel, and primrose-colored gloves.  Alfred wore his usual black Sunday suit, a lace collar around his neck about a foot wide, a straw hat on the ribbon of which was printed the name of one of His Majesty’s battleships, and a curl plastered upon his forehead very much in the style of Burton himself in earlier days.  Directly he saw his father, he put his finger in his mouth and seemed inclined to howl.  Ellen raised her veil and pushed him forward.

“Run to daddy,” she ordered, sharply.  “Do as you’re told, or I’ll box your ears.”

The child made an unwilling approach.  Ellen herself advanced, holding her skirts genteelly clutched in her left hand, her eyes fixed upon her husband, her expression a mixture of defiance and appeal.  Burton welcomed them both calmly.  His tongue failed him, however, when he tried to embark upon the most ordinary form of greeting.  Their appearance gave him again a most unpleasant shock, a fact which he found it extremely difficult to conceal.

“Well, can’t you say you’re glad to see us?” Ellen demanded, belligerently.

“If I had not wished to see you,” he replied, tactfully, “I should not have asked you to come.”