lately?' I inquired.

Henry grunted. Converted for the moment into 'A Well-known Actor,' he
was digging amongst his theatrical cuttings for reminiscent purposes,
and was, therefore, somewhat abstracted.

I, too, was supposed to be working, but try as I would I could not help
thinking of William. I felt sorry for him--he looked so distrait.
When, as he vaguely hinted, he had conceived an attachment for me I did
not think it was likely to cause him any unhappiness. Indeed, I never
imagined him capable of feeling any emotions but those of a purely
physical character--such as the effects of cold, heat, hunger or bodily
pain. And here he was, sighing and looking so dejected it was
depressing even to see him about the place. I had just been re-reading
_Cyrano de Bergerac_, whose case seemed rather applicable to William.
Could it be possible that under his rough exterior the poor fellow had
all the sentiment and fiery imagination of Cyrano, and suffered the
same sensitive torment about his appearance. Did William, like Cyrano,
shudder when his eye rested even on his own shadow? Did he feel that
because of his physical failings the love of woman must be for ever
denied him?

I must admit that William was a trifle more interesting to me now than
he had previously been. Every woman finds something rather gratifying
in being worshipped from afar, even if it is by an 'impossible.' Yet
the idea of making him unhappy was distasteful to me. I repeated my
question to Henry.

'Never seen William unhappy yet,' replied Henry, looking up, 'he's one
of those few chaps who seem contented with life--only wish I was the