Then he said, in a tone which sounded as if he was asking the question of himself rather than me, "Who is the Mrs Shield he writes to ?" He spoke so queerly and looked so strangely that I half wondered whether he was not wandering in his mind.
"Please," said I, "do not ask me these questions.

What is the matter with you, Mr Smith ?" "Matter, my boy!" said he, with a bitter laugh; "it's a big question you ask.

But I'll tell you if you'll listen." I repented of having asked the question, he looked so haggard and excited.

However, there was nothing for it but to sit still while he, pacing to and fro in the room, told me his story in his own way.
"This is not the first time you have been curious about me, Batchelor.
You have suspected I was or had been something different from the poor literary hack you see me, and you have been right, my boy." He stopped short in his walk as he said this, and his eyes flashed, just as I had sometimes seen Jack's eyes flash in the old days.
"Sixteen--no, seventeen--years ago I was the happiest man alive.

I can see the little cottage where we lived, my wife and child and I, with its ivy-covered porch and tiny balcony, and the garden which she so prided in behind.