“Bread and butter?” he asked, cheerily. I shook my head, I could not swallow any food. He watched me revive with real pleasure, and told me to take my time. I explained I was a cook and he encouraged me to hope for work. He was employed on the railway and, as he delicately hinted, was well able to afford to pay my score. When I had finished the coffee, with a shy gesture he offered me some coppers. “It’ll help a bit,” said he.

I thanked him⁠—never have thanks been more sincere⁠—but I could not take the money, and we parted with a cheery good morning in the street outside. I suppose nothing like this could have happened outside a poor district. In a more sophisticated quarter one would have expected a less generous sequel. But my workman was of finer stuff. He never even asked my name. A Knight Errant on the road of life, he gave simple and beautiful service, unsought and unrewarded.