I/lGr&^na^&c/ Bo 
i. 
HE egg was so small as to 
suggest that the hen had laid 
it with a grudge * but what 
it lacked in size it made up 
for in flavour, and after- the 
first morsel Mr. Timothy Wells 
removed it from his plate 
and set it down behind the tea-cosy. 
“ Ah ! ” he murmured sadly. 
Mr. Timothy Wells was often sad, but 
never angry. People like him do not get on 
in this world. 
He proceeded to breakfast on tough toast 
and stale butter, washed down with tea whose 
weakness hinted at exhaustion rather than 
insufficient infusion. 
The clock on the mantelpiece wheezed ten 
times, thereby informing Mr. Wells that the 
hour was nine-fifteen. He lit a cigarette — 
his sole extravagance — and transferred him- 
self to the alleged easy-chair at the side of 
the ugly hearth. He had five minutes’ 
leisure before it would be necessary to put 
on his boots and go forth to the City. 
As he sat there smoking and apparently 
deeply interested in the dull fire, he provided 
the central subject for a picture to be called 
£< Middle Age and Failure.” Yet his years 
did not exceed five-and-thirty, and he was 
the owner of a business which, while it 
did not entitle him to be regarded as a 
wealthy man, had supplied him during the 
past decade with a more than merely cor 
fortable annual income. No, it was not just 
Time that had laid the grey on his hair, the 
lines on his clean-shaven countenance ; 
neither was it business worry in the ordinary 
sense. His eyes, brown and luminous, eager, 
strangely clear under the tired lids, betrayed 
something ot the truth. They seemed to 
be searching for hope in a wilderness of 
disappointments. 
The cheap cigarette began to taste rank, 
and he threw it into the fire and picked up 
one of his badly-brushed boots. Just then, 
without warning, the door was opened and 
the landlady’s voice announced : — 
A lady wants to see you.” 
Along with the words the visitor entered, 
a handsome woman in handsome furs. As 
the door closed her dark eyebrows were raised, 
her delicate nostrils sniffed in audible disgust. 
“ Really, Timothy ! ” she exclaimed. 
“ Really ! ” 
Timothy had risen. His smile was kind, 
but rather piteous. The only ladies who 
ever visited him were his three sisters, and 
they did not come out of love. The present 
visitor was Mirabel, his eldest sister. You 
would have perceived a strong family resem- 
blance between the two ; they had the same 
fine features, but compared with, the man’s 
the woman’s face looked as though it had 
undergone some subtle hardening process. 
“ Good morning, Mirabel,” he said, taking 
the perfectly-gloved hand. “ Glad to see 
you. Have this chair. Cold, isn’t it ? 
Hope there’s nothing wrong ? ” The last 
sentence had become a formula with him. 
Apparently she did not hear him. “ Really, 
Timothy,” she said, “ you go from bad to 
worse in your choice of lodgings. This is the 
worst yet. And what a horrible creature 
your landlady is ! Why don’t you go in for 
decent rooms ? ” She sank into the chair he 
had placed for her. “ Or even an hotel. It’s 
so absurd of you to live like this. One would 
say you were getting into miserly habits. 
And with such a splendid business, too ! ” 
Timothy had seated himself and was light- 
ing a fresh cigarette. “ All well at home, 
Mirabel ? ” he inquired, mildly. 
“ Oh, yes. The kiddies have the usual 
November colds, but they’re better now. 
Harold is all right, but rather crusty. This 
