“I see,” said Shelton.

As a fact, however, he was far from seeing; he literally did not know what to do.  It seemed so brutal to give Ferrand money and ask him to clear out; besides, he chanced to have none in his pocket.

“It needs philosophy to support what I ’ve gone through this week,” said Ferrand, shrugging his shoulders.  “On Wednesday last, when I received your letter, I had just eighteen-pence, and at once I made a resolution to come and see you; on that sum I ’ve done the journey.  My strength is nearly at an end.”

Shelton stroked his chin.

“Well,” he had just begun, “we must think it over,” when by Ferrand’s face he saw that some one had come in.  He turned, and saw Antonia in the doorway.  “Excuse me,” he stammered, and, going to Antonia, drew her from the room.

With a smile she said at once:  “It’s the young foreigner; I’m certain.  Oh, what fun!”

“Yes,” answered Shelton slowly; “he’s come to see me about getting some sort of tutorship or other.  Do you think your mother would mind if I took him up to have a wash?  He’s had a longish walk.  And might he have some breakfast?  He must be hungry.”

“Of course!  I’ll tell Dobson.  Shall I speak to mother?  He looks nice, Dick.”

He gave her a grateful, furtive look, and went back to his guest; an impulse had made him hide from her the true condition of affairs.

Ferrand was standing where he had been left his face still clothed in mordant impassivity.

“Come up to my room!” said Shelton; and while his guest was washing, brushing, and otherwise embellishing his person, he stood reflecting that Ferrand was by no means unpresentable, and he felt quite grateful to him.

He took an opportunity, when the young man’s back was turned, of examining his counterfoils.  There was no record, naturally, of a cheque drawn in Ferrand’s favour.  Shelton felt more mean than ever.

A message came from Mrs. Dennant; so he took the traveller to the dining-room and left him there, while he himself went to the lady of the house.  He met Antonia coming down.

“How many days did you say he went without food that time—­you know?” she asked in passing.

“Four.”

“He does n’t look a bit common, Dick.”

Shelton gazed at her dubiously.

“They’re surely not going to make a show of him!” he thought.

Mrs. Dennant was writing, in a dark-blue dress starred over with white spots, whose fine lawn collar was threaded with black velvet.

“Have you seen the new hybrid Algy’s brought me back from Kidstone?  Is n’t it charmin’?” and she bent her face towards this perfect rose.  “They say unique; I’m awfully interested to find out if that’s true.  I’ve told Algy I really must have some.”

Shelton thought of the unique hybrid breakfasting downstairs; he wished that Mrs. Dennant would show in him the interest she had manifested in the rose.  But this was absurd of him, he knew, for the potent law of hobbies controlled the upper classes, forcing them to take more interest in birds, and roses, missionaries, or limited and highly-bound editions of old books (things, in a word, in treating which you knew exactly where you were) than in the manifestations of mere life that came before their eyes.