At Odessa he had from time to time written what he thought poetry (it was not quite that, yet as verse not contemptible), and now, recalling to memory some favourite lines, he asked himself whether he might venture to write them out and send them to Miss Derwent.

Could he leave England, this time, without confessing himself to her?
Faint heart--he mused over the proverb.

The thought of a laboured letter repelled him, and perhaps her reply--if she replied at all--would be a blow scarce endurable.

In the offer of a copy of verses there is no undue presumption; it is a consecrated form of homage; it demands no immediate response.

But were they good enough, these rhymes of his ?--He would decide to-morrow, his last day.
And as was his habit, he read a little before sleeping, in one of the half-dozen volumes which he had chosen for this journey.