On the Heath Wentworth met a fellow-reporter, looking as gay and respectable as a rising barrister or successful physician. He had his wife and children with him. They nodded to each other, and the lady asked:
‘Who is that shabby, seedy-looking fellow?’
‘Oh, it is Wentworth, of the Daily Journal.’
‘He looks very sad and miserable.’
‘Of course. He is quite a man about town. I fancy he drinks more than is good for him, and leads too fast a life.’
‘What a pity! Has he no friends to look after him?’
‘I believe not. It is said he was brought up to be a parson of some kind or other, but he gave it up. He has plenty of ability, and would do well if he would settle down quietly. But he will never do that. They tell me he is quite a vagabond.’
‘Ask him to lunch, and let us see what we can do to reform him,’ said the lady, with the instinctive tender-heartedness of her sex.
‘My dear, he would not come if we did,’ and they passed on.
‘Ah, there goes Tomlinson,’ said Wentworth to himself. ‘How happy and respectable he looks! They tell me he has saved quite a lot of money, and has quite a nice little property about here. Such is destiny. He was born under a lucky star, I under an unfortunate one. Ah, if I had turned up trumps in matrimony, how different it would have been!’