As soon as his station should be sold and he married to Madge he determined to leave Australia, and never set foot on it again.  But until he could leave the place he would see no one, nor would he mix with his former friends, so great was his dread of being stared at.  Mrs. Sampson, who had welcomed him back with shrill exclamations of delight, was loud in her expressions of disapproval as to the way he was shutting himself up.

“Your eyes bein’ ’ollow,” said the sympathising cricket, “it is nat’ral as it’s want of air, which my ‘usband’s uncle, being a druggist, an’ well-to-do, in Collingwood, ses as ’ow a want of ox-eye-gent, being a French name, as ‘e called the atmispeare, were fearful for pullin’ people down, an’ makin’ ’em go off their food, which you hardly eats anythin’, an’ not bein’ a butterfly it’s expected as your appetite would be larger.”

“Oh, I’m all right,” said Brian, absently, lighting a cigarette, and only half listening to his landlady’s garrulous chatter, “but if anyone calls tell them I’m not in.  I don’t want to be bothered by visitors.”

“Bein’ as wise a thing as Solomon ever said,” answered Mrs. Sampson, energetically, “which, no doubt, ’e was in good ‘ealth when seein’ the Queen of Sheber, as is necessary when anyone calls, and not feelin’ disposed to speak, which I’m often that way myself on occasions, my sperits bein’ low, as I’ve ’eard tell soder water ’ave that effect on ‘em, which you takes it with a dash of brandy, tho’ to be sure that might be the cause of your want of life, and—­drat that bell,” she finished, hurrying out of the room as the front-door bell sounded, “which my legs is a-givin’ way under me thro’ bein’ overworked.”

Meanwhile, Brian sat and smoked contentedly, much relieved by the departure of Mrs. Sampson, with her constant chatter, but he soon heard her mount the stairs again, and she entered the room with a telegram, which she handed to her lodger.

“‘Opin’ it don’t contain bad noose,” she said as she retreated to the door again, “which I don’t like ’em ‘avin’ had a shock in early life thro’ one ‘avin’ come unexpected, as my uncle’s grandfather were dead, ‘avin’ perished of consumption, our family all being disposed to the disease—­and now, if you’ll excuse me, sir, I’ll get to my dinner, bein’ in the ‘abit of takin’ my meals reg’lar, and I studies my inside carefully, bein’ easily upset, thro’ which I never could be a sailor.”

Mrs. Sampson, having at last exhausted herself, went out of the room, and crackled loudly down the stairs, leaving Brian to read his telegram.  He tore open the envelope and found the message was from Madge, to say that they had returned, and to ask him to dine with them that evening.  Fitzgerald folded up the telegram, then rising from his seat, he walked moodily up and down the room with his hands in his pockets.

“So he is there,” said the young man aloud; “and I shall have to meet him and shake hands with him, knowing all the time what he is.  If it were not for Madge I’d leave this place at once, but after the way she stood by me in my trouble, I should be a coward if I did so.”