Their dialogue was made up of the most trifling of trivialities--weather, a railway accident, the desirability of holidays at this season.

And when at length he rose and put an end to the chat it was with appreciable reluctance.
'A good, nice sort of girl,' he went away saying to himself.

'Pity she should be serving at a bar--hearing doubtful talk, and seeing very often vile sights.

A nice, soft-spoken little girl.' And he mused upon her remembered face with a complacency which soothed his feelings.
Of a sudden he was checked by the conversion of his sentiment into thought.

Would he not have been a much happier man if he had married a girl distinctly his inferior in mind and station?
Provided she were sweet, lovable, docile--such a wife would have spared him all the misery he had known with Monica.