‘Oh, Fred can carry it. Make him do what he can for the dear old ‘ome.’

‘Mike use of’im,’ said Fred, grimly humorous, as he took the chair from the dealer. His movements were graceful, yet curiously abject, slinking.

‘‘Ere’s mother’s cosy chair,’ he said. ‘Warnts a cushion.’ And he stood it down on the market stones.

‘Don’t you think it’s pretty?’ laughed Ursula.

‘Oh, I do,’ said the young woman.

‘‘Ave a sit in it, you’ll wish you’d kept it,’ said the young man.

Ursula promptly sat down in the middle of the market–place.

‘Awfully comfortable,’ she said. ‘But rather hard. You try it.’ She invited the young man to a seat. But he turned uncouthly, awkwardly aside, glancing up at her with quick bright eyes, oddly suggestive, like a quick, live rat.

‘Don’t spoil him,’ said the young woman. ‘He’s not used to arm–chairs, ‘e isn’t.

The young man turned away, and said, with averted grin:

‘Only warnts legs on ‘is.’

The four parted. The young woman thanked them.

‘Thank you for the chair—it’ll last till it gives way.’

‘Keep it for an ornyment,’ said the young man.

‘Good afternoon—Good afternoon,’ said Ursula and Birkin.

‘Goo’–luck to you,’ said the young man, glancing and avoiding Birkin’s eyes, as he turned aside his head.

The two couples went asunder, Ursula clinging clinging to Birkin’s arm. When they had gone some distance, she glanced back and saw the young man going beside the full, easy young woman. His trousers sank over his heels, he moved with a sort of slinking evasion, more crushed with odd self–consciousness now he had the slim old arm–chair to carry, his arm over the back, the four fine, square tapering legs swaying perilously near the granite setts of the pavement. And yet he was somewhere indomitable and separate, like a quick, vital rat. He had a queer, subterranean beauty, repulsive too.

‘How strange they are!’ said Ursula.

‘Children of men,’ he said. ‘They remind me of Jesus: “The meek shall inherit the earth.”’

‘But they aren’t the meek,’ said Ursula.

‘Yes, I don’t know why, but they are,’ he replied.

They waited for the tramcar. Ursula sat on top and looked out on the town. The dusk was just dimming the hollows of crowded houses.

‘And are they going to inherit the earth?’ she said.

‘Yes—they.’

‘Then what are we going to do?’ she asked. ‘We’re not like them—are we? We’re not the meek?’

‘No. We’ve got to live in the chinks they leave us.’

‘How horrible!’ cried Ursula. ‘I don’t want to live in chinks.’

‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘They are the children of men, they like market–places and street–corners best. That leaves plenty of chinks.’

“You must study him, then,” Stamford said, as he bade me good-bye. “You’ll find him a knotty problem, though. I‘ll wager he learns more about you than you about him. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye,” I answered, and strolled on to my hotel, considerably interested in my new acquaintance.

We met next day as he had arranged, and inspected the rooms at No. 221B, Baker Street, of which he had spoken at our meeting. They consisted of a couple of comfortable bedrooms and a single large airy sitting-room, cheerfully furnished, and illuminated by two broad windows. So desirable in every way were the apartments, and so moderate did the terms seem when divided between us, that the bargain was concluded upon the spot, and we at once entered into possession. That very evening I moved my things round from the hotel, and on the following morning Sherlock Holmes followed me with several boxes and portmanteaus. For a day or two we were busily employed in unpacking and laying out our property to the best advantage. That done, we gradually began to settle down and to accommodate ourselves to our new surroundings.

Holmes was certainly not a difficult man to live with. He was quiet in his ways, and his habits were regular. It was rare for him to be up after ten at night, and he had invariably breakfasted and gone out before I rose in the morning. Sometimes he spent his day at the chemical laboratory, sometimes in the dissecting-rooms, and occasionally in long walks, which appeared to take him into the lowest portions of the city. Nothing could exceed his energy when the working fit was upon him; but now and again a reaction would seize him, and for days on end he would lie upon the sofa in the sitting-room, hardly uttering a word or moving a muscle from morning to night. On these occasions I have noticed such a dreamy, vacant expression in his eyes, that I might have suspected him of being addicted to the use of some narcotic, had not the temperance and cleanliness of his whole life forbidden such a notion.

As the weeks went by, my interest in him and my curiosity as to his aims in life gradually deepened and increased. His very person and appearance were such as to strike the attention of the most casual observer. In height he was rather over six feet, and so excessively lean that he seemed to be considerably taller. His eyes were sharp and piercing, save during those intervals of torpor to which I have alluded; and his thin, hawk-like nose gave his whole expression an air of alertness and decision. His chin, too, had the prominence and squareness which mark the man of determination. His hands were invariably blotted with ink and stained with chemicals, yet he was possessed of extraordinary delicacy of touch, as I frequently had occasion to observe when I watched him manipulating his fragile philosophical instruments.

The reader may set me down as a hopeless busybody, when I confess how much this man stimulated my curiosity, and how often I endeavoured to break through the reticence which he showed on all that concerned himself. Before pronouncing judgment, however, be it remembered how objectless was my life, and how little there was to engage my attention. My health forbade me from venturing out unless the weather was exceptionally genial, and I had no friends who would call upon me and break the monotony of my daily existence. Under these circumstances, I eagerly hailed the little mystery which hung around my companion, and spent much of my time in endeavouring to unravel it.