On an afternoon in September, Harvey Rolfe spent half an hour at a certain London bookseller's, turning over books that dealt with the theory and practice of elementary education.

Two or three of them he selected, and ordered to be sent to a lady at Gunnersbury.

On his way out he came upon an acquaintance making a purchase in another department of the shop.

It was some months since he had seen Cecil Morphew, who looked in indifferent health, and in his dress came near to shabbiness.

They passed out together, Morphew carrying an enwrapped volume, which he gave Rolfe to understand was a birthday present--for _her_.