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in the hearts of men lingers Sir Arthur Duck? For one thing he
had a bad name. Our English sense of humour revolts from making
a popular hero of a man called Duck. Yet we made one of Drake.
But there was something masculine about the latter: in fact,
everything.
I am afraid it was rather late when I got to Judith.
I wonder whether I should be happier now if I had lived in a
garret in the brave days when I was twentyone, if I had
undergone the lessons of misery with the attendant compensations
of _une folle maitresse, de francs amis et l'amour des chansons_,
and had joyousheartedly mounted my six flights of stairs. I
lived modestly, it is true; but never for a moment was I doubtful
as to my next meal, and I have always enjoyed the creature comforts
of the respectable classes; never did Lisette pin her shawl
curtainwise across my window. Sometimes, nowadays, I almost wish
she had. I never dreamed of glory, love, pleasure, madness, or
spent my lifetime in a moment, like the singer of the immortal
song. Often the weary moments seemed a lifetime.
And now that I am forty, it is too late a week. Boon
companions, of whom I am thankful to say I have none, would drive
me crazy with their intolerable heartiness. I once spent an
evening at the Savage Club. As for the _folle maitresse_as a
concomitant of my existence she transcends imagination.
What are you thinking of? asked Judith.
I was thinking how the _'Dans un grenier qu'on est bien a vingt
ans'_ principle would have worked in my own case, I answered
truthfully, for the above reflections had been Passing through my
mind.
Judith laughed.
You in a garret? Why, you haven't got a temperament!
I suppose I haven't. It never occurred to me before. Beranger
omitted that from his list of attendant compensations.
That's the difference between us, she added, after a pause. I
have a temperament and you haven't.
I hope you find it a great comfort.
It is ten times more uncomfortable than a conscience. It is the
bane of one's existence.
Why be so proud of having it?
You wouldn't understand if I told you, said Judith.
I rose and walked to the window and gazed meditatively at the
rain which swept the uninspiring little street. Judith lives in
Tottenham Mansions, in the purlieus of the Tottenham Court Road.
The ground floor of the building is a publichouse, and on summer
evenings one can sit by the open windows, and breathe in the
healthgiving fumes of beer and whisky, and listen to the sweet,

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