I did not see Strickland for several weeks.I was disgusted with him,and if I had had an opportunity should have been glad to tell him so,but I saw no object in seeking him out for the purpose.I am a little shy of any assumption of moral indignation.There is always in it an element of selfsatisfaction which makes it awkward to anyone who has a sense of humour.It requires a very lively passion to steel me to my own ridicule.There was a sardonic sincerity in Strickland which made me sensitive to anything that might suggest a pose.

　　But one evening,when I was passing along the Avenue de Clichy in front of the café which Strickland frequented and which I now avoided,I ran straight into him.He was accompanied by Blanche Stroeve,and they were just going to Stricklands favourite corner.

　　‘Where the devil have you been all this time?’said he.‘I thought you must be away.’

　　His cordiality was proof that he knew I had no wish to speak to him.He was not a man with whom it was worth while wasting politeness.

　　‘No’,I said;‘I havent been away.’

　　......