CHAPTER XXII.
Mr.Nathan Smith, usually one of the most matter-of-fact men in the world, came out of Mr.Swann's house in a semi-dazed condition, and for some time after the front door had closed behind him stood gaping on the narrow pavement.
He looked up and down the quiet little street and shook his head sadly.
It was a street of staid and substantial old houses; houses which had mellowed and blackened with age, but whose quaint windows and chance-opened doors afforded glimpses of comfort attesting to the prosperity of those within.

In the usual way Mr.Nathan Smith was of too philosophical a temperament to experience the pangs of envy, but to-day these things affected him, and he experienced a strange feeling of discontent with his lot in life.
"Some people 'ave all the luck," he muttered, and walked slowly down the road.
[Illustration: "'Some people 'ave all the luck,' he muttered."] He continued his reflections as he walked through the somewhat squalid streets of his own quarter.

The afternoon was wet and the houses looked dingier than usual; dirty, inconvenient little places most of them, with a few cheap gimcracks making a brave show as near the window as possible.
Mr.Smith observed them with newly opened eyes, and, for perhaps the first time in his life, thought of the draw-backs and struggles of the poor.
In his own untidy little den at the back of the house he sat for some time deep in thought over the events of the afternoon.

He had been permitted a peep at wealth; at wealth, too, which was changing hands, but was not coming his way.

He lit his pipe and, producing a bottle of rum from a cupboard, helped himself liberally.