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 frequent cleanings with acid and sulphur, that his enamelled-leather shoes were shabby with a network of small cracks. His features were almost ascetically lean and bony, and he had the mouth of a public speaker that smiled with a slow ease very pleasant to see. After a silence, he always cleared his throat with a deliberate cough, before he spoke. Altogether, he reminded Don of a young curate whom he had known in his Sunday-school days in Goulton; and unconsciously Don was drawn to him by this memory of his prototype, trusted him, and was ready to confide in him. They went to a cheap Hungarian café where Don understood neither the names of the dishes nor the ingredients of them; but in a revulsion of emotion, taking everything—including his food—on trust, he was moved to tell this chance acquaintance more of himself and his circumstances than he could have told anyone but an intimate friend; and it was always, afterwards, a marvel to him that he had done so, for the clerical stranger, after introducing himself as "Walter Tower," merely listened and smiled and nodded, with the manner of an elder who understood, but with no return of confidences in kind. Beyond this sympathetic attention, he contented himself with recalling Don to his neglected food. "Yes?" he would say encouragingly. "These Hungarians do not serve butter. We can order some, if you like, but it'll be unsalted." Or, "Try this dessert. It tastes like Purim cake. Have you ever done any stage work?" And when they had paid the beaming foreigner in shirt-sleeves—behind a counter full of bread and pies and boxes of cheap