no secret of it, Mrs Gorbutt rued the day
on which she had wedded a man of letters, when by waiting so short a time she
would have been enabled to aim at a prosperous tradesman, who kept his gig and
had everything handsome about him. Mrs Yule suspected, not without reason, that
this lady had an inclination to strong liquors. Thirdly came Mr and Mrs
Christopherson, who were poor as church mice. Even in a friend's house they
wrangled incessantly, and made tragi-comical revelations of their home life. The
husband worked casually at irresponsible journalism, but his chosen study was
metaphysics; for many years he had had a huge and profound book on hand, which
he believed would bring him fame, though he was not so unsettled in mind as to
hope for anything else. When an article or two had earned enough money for
immediate necessities he went off to the British Museum, and then the difficulty
was to recall him to profitable exertions. Yet husband and wife had an affection
for each other. Mrs Christopherson came from Camberwell, where her father, once
upon a time, was the smallest of small butchers. Disagreeable stories were
whispered concerning her earlier life, and probably the metaphysician did not
care to look back in that direction. They had had three children; all were
happily buried.
    These men were capable of better things than they had done or would ever do;
in each case their failure to fulfil youthful promise was largely explained by
the unpresentable wife. They should have waited; they might have married a
social equal at something between fifty and sixty.
    Another old friend was Mr Quarmby. Unwedded, he, and perpetually exultant
over men who, as he phrased it, had noosed themselves. He made a fair living,
but, like Dr Johnson, had no passion for clean linen.
    Yule was not disdainful of these old companions, and the fact that all had a
habit of looking up to him increased his pleasure in their occasional society.
If, as happened once or twice in halt a year, several of them were gathered
together at his house, he tasted a sham kind of social and intellectual
authority which he could not help relishing. On such occasions he threw off his
habitual gloom and talked vigorously, making natural display of his learning and
critical ability. The topic, sooner or later, was that which is inevitable in
such a circle - the demerits, the pretentiousness, the personal weaknesses of
prominent contemporaries in the world of letters. Then did the room ring with
scornful laughter, with boisterous satire, with shouted irony, with fierce
invective