the softer sex is concerned. It could scarcely be expected that he would be. In the home circles in which he moves, wife- (or paramour-) beating and fights between women are common occurrences, and Slinger, like his betters, unconsciously adapts himself to his environment. Even now, if he has a quarrel with a girl, his talk is of 'slogging' her, of 'knocking corners off' her, landing her one on the nose,' and so forth. On another point, too, his environment seems likely to mould him evilly. If there is anything in the law of hereditary transmission the 'drink craving' is in all probability inborn with Slinger, and all his surroundings tend to develop it in him. He is witness to scenes of drinking and drunkenness every day of his life, and has probably no conception that they are not an ordained and integral feature of every-day life. If, when themselves in the maudlin stage of drunkenness, his parents want to show an unwonted tenderness towards him, they give him of their drink; and when carrying drink for others he takes toll in the shape of a good sip, which evidently goes down with a relish highly suggestive of the strength of the craving growing with his growth.

My Arab, as I have said, is a tough little customer; nevertheless, his wretched mode of life tells upon him at times. He has few opportunities, and probably little inclination to practise the virtue of personal cleanliness, and neglect upon this point brings its own punishment, in the shape of frequent outbreaks of skindisease. In the winter season, if the weather proves severe, it finds out his weak spots. His feet, though case-hardened, swell and chap,' and he suffers from neuralgic affections. At such times he is to be seen painfully limping about, with his face bandaged-or, as he graphically describes it, 'with his head in a sling' and looking, and doubtless feeling, 'the picture of misery.' But the point in connection with him which affords 'food for saddest contemplation' lies in the fact that, wretched little creature though he be, he is a highly fortunate example of his class. There are hundreds, nay thousands, of children who are to the full as badly off as he in relation to parents and home, and surroundings generally, but whose sufferings are more and greater than his, because they lack his capacity for self-help. What will become of Slinger if he lives to attain to manhood is of course an open question, though within a very limited range. If very fortunate, he may get into trouble' while he is still young enough to be sent to an industrial school or reformatory.

If this does not befall, the open question will be narrowed to whether it will be the criminal or the no-visible-means-of-support section of society that he will go to swell. To one or the other of them he is certain to gravitate.

I have seen much prettier and more sentimental pen-and-ink pictures of Arabs than mine; and it may be that there have been individual Arabs who have justified these pleasanter portraits. Broadly speaking, however, the characteristics of my Arab are the badge of all his tribe. He is drawn from the life, and that not from a single sitting, not as the result of a morning's 'slumming' by way of pastime, or a flying visit to a low quarter under police protection. I have known Slinger from his infancy upwards, and have had a daily-and still existing-experience amongst his class, extending over a period of twelve years. I have drawn him, both personally and as a type, in his habit, as he lives, with all his imperfections on his head; but in doing so I have wrought in no unkindly or unpitying spirit.

625

THE GIANT'S ROBE.

BY THE AUTHOR OF VICE VERSA.'

Now does he feel his title

Hang loose about him, like a giant's robe
Upon a dwarfish thief.'-Macbeth.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

MARK ACCEPTS A DISAGREEABLE DUTY.

INCENT had his misgivings, as he walked towards Campden Hill, that at such a period of the London season his journey would most probably be a fruitless one. But as he approached the house he found one or two carriages waiting outside, the horses troubling the hot afternoon stillness with the sharp clinking of harness as they tossed their impatient heads; and by the time he had reached the gate the

clatter of china and the sustained chorus of female voices coming through the open windows made it plain enough that Mabel was at home,' in a sense that was only one degree less disappointing than what he had dreaded.

He was almost inclined to turn back or pass on, for he was feeling ill and weak--the heat had brought on a slight tendency to the faintness which still reminded him occasionally of his long prostration in Ceylon, and he had a nervous disinclination just then to meet a host of strangers. The desire to see Mabel again prevailed, however, and he went in. The pretty double drawing

room was full of people, and, as every one seemed to be talking at once, Vincent's name was merely an unimportant contribution to the general hubbub. He saw no one he knew, he was almost the only man there, and for a time found himself penned up in a corner, reduced to wait patiently until Mabel should discover him in the cool half-light which filtered through the lowered sunblinds.

He followed her graceful figure with his eyes as often as it became visible through the crowd. It was easy to see that she was happy her smile was as frank and gay as ever. The knowledge of this should have consoled him, he had expected it to do so, and yet, to tell the truth, it was not without its bitterness. Mabel had been his ideal of women, his fair and peerless queen, and it pained him-as it has pained unsuccessful lovers beforeto think that she could so contentedly accept pinchbeck for gold. It was inconsistent on his part, since he had sacrificed much for the very object of concealing from her the baseness of Mark's metal. He forgot, too, the alchemy of love.

But one cannot always be consistent, and this inconsistency of Vincent's was of that involuntary and mental kind which is not translated into action.

She saw him at last and welcomed him with an eager impulsiveness for she knew now that she had been unjust to him at Laufingen. They talked for some minutes, until Vincent said at last, 'I hear you are going to play Beaumelle?'

6

Oh yes,' said Mabel. Isn't it presumption? But Mrs. Featherstone (you've met her once or twice at our house, you know)-Mrs. Featherstone would not hear of my refusing. Mark, I believe, thinks the part hardly suited to me, but I mean to try. and astonish him, even though I may not carry out his own idea of Beaumelle. I love Beaumelle in the book so much that I ought not to be quite a failure in the play.'

'No, you will not fail,' said Vincent, and dared not say more on that point. 'I—I should like very much to see this play,' he said, a little awkwardly. Could it be managed ?'

'I will try,' said Mabel. I am sure Mrs. Featherstone will give me a card for you if she can. But I warn you, Vincent, it's not a good play. There's one strong scene in the third act, and the rest is a long succession of tête-à-têtes—like a Society "Punch and Judy." It will bore you.'

'I think not,' said Vincent; and you won't forget, will you?'

'Of course not,' she replied. There is Mrs. Featherstone coming in now. I will ask her at once.'

But Mrs Featherstone had an air of suppressed flurry and annoyance which was discouraging, and Gilda's handsome face was dark and a little defiant as she followed her mother into the room.

'Can you get away from all these people for two minutes?' said Mrs. Featherstone, after the first greetings; 'I've something to tell you.'

Mabel took her through the rooms out upon a balcony overlooking the garden and screened from the sun by a canvas awning. 'We shall be quiet here,' she said.

Mrs. Featherstone did not speak for some moments. At last she