There was a magnificent library, mostly editions de luxe. Thomas

smiled over the many uncut volumes. True, Dickens, Dumas and Stevenson

were tolerably well-thumbed; but the host of thinkers and poets and

dramatists and theologians, in their hand-tooled Levant . . . ! Away

in an obscure corner (because of its cheap binding) he came across a

set of Lamb. He took out a volume at random and glanced at the

fly-leaf--"Kitty Killigrew, Smith College." Then he went into the body

of the book. It was copiously marked and annotated. There was

something so intimate in the touch of the book that he felt he was

committing a sacrilege, looking as it were into Kitty's soul. Most men

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would have gone through the set. Thomas put the book away. Thou fool,

indeed! What a hash he had made of his affairs!

He saw Killigrew at breakfast only. The merchant preferred his club in

the absence of his family.

Early in the afternoon of the fourth day, Thomas received a telephone

call from Killigrew.

"Hello! That you, Webb?"

"Yes. Who is it?"

"Killigrew. Got anything to do to-night?"

"No, Mr. Killigrew."

"You know where my club is, don't you?"

"Yes."

"Well, be there at seven for dinner. Tell the butler and the

housekeeper. Mr. Crawford has a box to the fight to-night, and he

thought perhaps you'd like to go along with us."

"A boxing-match?"

"Ten rounds, light-weights; and fast boys, too. Both Irish."

"Really, I shall be glad to go."

"Webb?"

"Yes."

"Never use that word 'really' to me. It's un-Irish."

Thomas heard a chuckle before the receiver at the other end clicked on

the hook. What a father this hearty, kindly, humorous Irishman would

have made for a son!

In London Thomas' amusements had been divided into three classes.

During the season he went to the opera twice, to the music-halls once a

month, to a boxing-match whenever he could spare the shillings. He

belonged to a workingmen's club not far from where he lived; an empty

warehouse, converted into a hall, with a platform in the center, from

which the fervid (and often misinformed) socialists harangued; and in

one corner was a fair gymnasium. Every fortnight, for the sum of a

crown a head, three or four amateur bouts were arranged. Thomas rarely

missed these exhibitions; he seriously considered it a part of his

self-acquired education. What Englishman lives who does not? Brains

and brawn make a man (or a country) invincible.

At seven promptly Thomas called at the club and asked for Mr.

Killigrew. He was shown into the grill, where he was pleasantly

greeted by his host and Crawford and introduced to a young man about

his own age, a Mr. Forbes. Thomas, dressed in his new stag-coat, felt

that he was getting along famously. He had some doubt in regard to his

straw hat, however, till, after dinner, he saw that his companions were

wearing their Panamas.




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