Tempo non mi parea da far riparo
     contr'a' colpi d'Amor; perņ m'andai
     secur, senza sospetto; onde i miei guai
     nel comune dolor s'incominciaro.

     [It hardly seemed the time for me to plan
     defence against Love's stroke; I went my way
     secure, unwary; so upon that day
     of general sorrow all my pains began.]
          -- Petrarch, Canzoniere, III

"On the contrary," Holmes replied, "it is a most pertinent one. I wish to know whether your sister might draw unwanted attention on account of her appearance alone, or whether some other explanation would be necessary."

When I hesitated, he added tartly, "Pray do not tire me with euphemisms, however noble the loyalty that inspires them. I assure you that nothing less than the truth will be of any service to me or, in the end, to Miss Trevor."

Such a remark plainly demanded some cutting retort, but I found it difficult to decide whether to be affronted or amused. "I fear the truth will disappoint you," I said at last. "As soon as she turned sixteen we had a positive plague of suitors, each one more besotted than the last."

A quirk of one eyebrow was Holmes's only visible sign of surprise. "And what was her response to this surfeit of attention?"

"She was not interested in any of them, and she did not hesitate to tell them so -- kindly at first, then firmly, and when even that did not suffice, sternly."

"She would not appear to lack either courage or good sense."

"Certainly not."

Holmes tapped the stem of his pipe thoughtfully against his teeth. "And yet she has not confided in you about the man who is threatening her. A sensible young woman would not allow any such effrontery to persist without complaint -- unless she were under some strong compulsion to remain silent."

"I cannot imagine anyone being able to compel her so." I said, leaning back and lighting a cigarette. "Nor can I imagine what fear or threat might induce her to keep her counsel so closely."

"Your lack of imagination, Trevor, is of no account," Holmes retorted. "The paucity of data, on the other hand, is a legitimate obstacle." His gaze became distant; he paused momentarily before continuing, "In order to formulate any definite conclusion I would have to see the young lady myself. Is your Aunt wealthy?"

"Quite," I said, somewhat taken aback by the abruptness of the inquiry.

"Married?"

"Widowed, and remarried."

"Recently?"

"If you mean the second marriage, three years ago."

"Happily?"

"I have never seen reason to believe otherwise."

Holmes made an assenting noise. "Children?"

"Five, four of them from the first marriage. Vita is their governess."

"You said that your Aunt relies upon her."

"Yes, but not only on account of the children. For the past few years Aunt Catherine's health has been increasingly delicate. The birth of her youngest child nearly took her life."

"Miss Trevor has lived with your aunt for two years, you said."

"Yes. And," I added, anticipating his next question, "she has never appeared less than happy. The children weary her sometimes, but that is only to be expected."

"Indeed," said Holmes. "Well, Mr Trevor, I shall meditate upon your sister's situation with the aid of my briar and a prodigious quantity of shag. As you well know--" he inclined his head toward his cushioned ankle-- "I can do no more at present."

I rose, taking my hat in hand. "Mr Holmes, I am indebted to you."

"No, Trevor, I think it is I who must confess myself in debt. You have given me a puzzle to solve, which suits me far better than a box of comfits, or any of the other tokens of sympathy to which an invalid is generally subjected. If you should come upon any new information about your sister's case, pray bring it to my attention."

All at once I remembered the envelope in my pocket. "I received a letter from her today--"

Holmes looked up at me sharply, astonishment plain on his features. "Good heavens, Trevor, I had no intention of prying into your personal correspondence."

"But you may notice something I have overlooked." Fumbling in my coat, I found the letter, and tossed it onto the table between us. "It contains no revelations of a private nature, I assure you."

I waited for him to pick up the envelope, which after a moment he did. With a deliberation that belied his show of reluctance he turned it over in his long hands, scrutinized both front and back, and sniffed it before opening it and unfolding the letter within.

"Paper of good quality, Swiss by the watermark. Faint scent of camphor -- your sister has a cough, Trevor." I must have made some small sound of alarm, for he glanced up at me with a faint smile and added, "But don't worry, old fellow, it can hardly be serious, since she addressed the letter in a carriage and posted it in Birmingham."

"I must be on my way," I said with some reluctance, for I never ceased to be fascinated by Holmes's observations. "May I stop in tomorrow?"

"By all means," he replied, but his voice was absent and his eyes fixed on the letter.

I closed the door very softly as I left.

Why did I trust Sherlock Holmes so readily, so soon? Perhaps it was guilt: since my dog had done him such harm I was eager to do anything that might make his convalescence more tolerable. Yet I think it was more than mere contrition that led me, day after day, to put my sister's letters into Holmes's hands.

I have always possessed a certain natural intuition about people, and it did not take me long to sense that despite his indifferent manner, Sherlock Holmes was as lonely, and as needy of friendship, as myself. Vita's letters were, in those early days, a bridge between us, a convenient pretext for my visits with Holmes to become ever more frequent and prolonged.

Soon, however, no excuses were needed. To our mutual surprise, Holmes and I discovered some common interests -- in particular, a passion for boxing. I shall never forget how, once his ankle had thoroughly healed, I had the pleasure of watching my friend trounce young Weston, the local favorite, in three seemingly effortless rounds. Holmes's long arms and quick reflexes meant he often beat his opponent to the punch, and in the ring he was agile as a dancer. We never fought each other seriously, for my heavier frame put me in a different class; but when we sparred for practice, he easily bested me.

Weeks passed, while the bright torrent of fallen leaves that had once swirled about our ankles on our way to College turned to sodden paste beneath our feet. Holmes disliked cold weather, and I noted that the sight of the ashen sky and skeletal trees seemed to make him melancholy.

I remember in particular one blustery day in late November, when the lighted windows and crackling fire of a local public-house brought us in, blowing and stamping, for a drink to cheer us on our way. We took the nearest available table to the hearth, and soon a young barmaid, pert, flaxen-haired, and unblushingly conscious of her charms, minced over to ask what we would have to drink.

As she took the order, I noticed with surprise -- and, I confess, some frustration -- that her eye rested most often on Holmes. Indeed, as she left, I could have sworn that she winked at him, though he gave no sign that he had seen it.

"You might be in luck, Holmes. I do believe she fancies you," I said slyly, unable to resist this opportunity to tease him.

"It is no doubt due to her poor eyesight," he replied with indifference, "which she is too vain to correct with spectacles. A distinct furrowing of the forehead and narrowing of the eyes betrays her."

"Holmes! Can you not even look at a pretty girl without rendering her into an assortment of curious details?"

"For a girl like that," retorted my friend, "I can see no other use."

Unable to credit my own ears, I turned and gazed after the girl's retreating figure, thinking I had made some mistake. But the more I looked at her the more winsome she appeared, and I turned back to my companion with renewed confidence and a somewhat patronizing smile. "Are you sure you aren't the one in need of spectacles, old fellow?"

Holmes did not return the smile. His eyes were cold, his face expressionless, and when he replied it was in a low, sharp-edged voice that startled me with its vehemence:

"A healthy appetite is not pacified with confections, Trevor. When a man has worked hard and long without food, do you think he dreams of blancmange? Sated men may find room for such trifles, but only a fool would mistake them for real sustenance."

The words came as a stinging blow to my young pride. It was bad enough that the girl preferred Holmes to myself; now he had the gall to accuse me of poor judgment and cheap taste. Painfully conscious of my own lack of experience with women, I resented the implication that he knew better than I.

"You may philosophize, Holmes," I retorted, putting as much scorn into my voice as I could muster, "but I know the real reason for your disdain. The truth is, you don't know a bit about women, and you're afraid of being found out."

Had I phrased the challenge differently, he might merely have laughed. But I had accused him of ignorance; I had struck at the root of his pride. Without a word my friend pushed back his chair and rose to his full impressive height. His eyes, cool and mocking, met mine like a fencer's blade. Then he raised his head, and every muscle in his body seemed to shift into a looser, more fluid posture. The alteration was profound as a disguise; but for his face I scarcely would have recognized him.

He gazed out across the room to the bar, where the source of our quarrel was arranging froth-capped glasses on a tray. Unblinking he fixed his stare upon her, and though he spoke not a word, even his silence seemed brazen. It was mere seconds before she glanced up, and I saw the blood rush into her cheeks. Then Holmes spoke.

"Felicity."

His ordinary voice was a light tenor, somewhat inclined to shrillness, but he did not use that voice now. In a warm, melodic tone he pronounced her name, as though each syllable were poetry; at once she left her tray, and walked toward him with the air of one entranced.

I looked at Holmes, then at the girl, and for one wild moment wondered whether there were some prior understanding between them, and I was being played for a fool. But no, the wonder in the barmaid's eyes was as real as my own. I could read the question trembling on her lips: How could you know my name? Yet she did not speak.

Holmes reached out and took her hand in both of his, eliciting from her a little gasp. He looked her directly in the eye, and replied in that same mellow, alluring voice: "My dear girl, you really must learn to wear your spectacles."

Felicity blinked. "My... spectacles?"

"You do have a pair, I trust?"

"Well... yes. But..." She hesitated, staring at him, her mouth hanging open in a cowlike way I suddenly found repulsive.

"A bit of metal and glass on the bridge of your nose will not diminish your charms, I assure you," said Holmes. "Promise me that you will wear them from now on."

"Oh," she whispered, as though overwhelmed. "Yes, I will. Thank you."

Holmes dropped her hand. "Now," he said in his normal voice, "may we have our drinks?"

"Oh-- oh, yes. Your pardon, sir." With mingled amazement and disgust I watched her turn first one way and then the other, as though she had lost not only her sense of direction but all hope of reasoned thought. At last she seemed to recall where the bar was located, and with a final, dazed glance at Holmes wandered back to her abandoned tray.

Watching her, I was barely aware of Holmes resuming his customary rigid, somewhat forbidding stance and seating himself opposite me once more. I kept silent until Felicity brought us our glasses of beer, placing them on the table with a delicacy that bordered on reverence. I thanked her warmly, but her only reply was a distracted nod. She tried to catch Holmes's eye, but in vain: he was engrossed in lighting his pipe and would not even look at her. At last her smile died and she drifted away, disconsolate.

I leaned across the table and plucked, none too gently, at Holmes's sleeve. "Was it really necessary to sacrifice the poor girl's feelings, just to prove your point?"

"My dear Trevor," said Holmes icily, "a few moments ago, you were all for sacrificing a good deal more of her than that."

I was taken aback. "I didn't mean--"

"Then what precisely did you mean?"

"Well, you know--" I made a futile gesture, then burst out, "For heaven's sake, Holmes, it happens all the time! I don't know of a fellow in College who wouldn't--"

"I am trying to understand," interrupted Holmes, "how it should be more cruel for me to make capital of Felicity's feelings to prove a philosophical point than it is for other men to make capital of her charms to gratify their sensual desires."

"Well," I blurted, "at least from them she knows what to expect."

"Precisely," said Holmes, and I saw the glitter of anger in his eye. "Trevor, I will make this perfectly clear to you, once and once only: I will not be baited with talk of pretty barmaids. I do not want Felicity or any of her kin, because I do not want a sheep, I do not want a lap-dog, and no matter what the price, I do not want a whore."

I took a draught of beer, in a futile attempt to hide the blush of shame that had risen to my cheeks at this shocking but well- deserved reproof. "Very well," I said, considerably subdued, "but what do you want?"

Holmes did not answer. He sat with one leg thrown over the other, cupping his pipe in one lean hand, staring into the fire.

"You haven't touched your beer," I reminded him.

His only response was a gallic shrug.

"And how did you know that girl's name?"

"Trevor," said Holmes, wearily but not unkindly, "not only do you see and not observe, you hear and do not listen. The rotund German tutor by the door called to Felicity as we were looking about for a seat. And if you wish to know why I should be so sure of his occupation, you have only to look at the primer protruding from his school-bag and the stack of papers, each in a different hand, upon the table."

"Oh." I glanced around. "I see. Holmes?"

"Hmmm?"

"I'm sorry."

"You're not a bad fellow, Trevor," he replied, "but you really must learn to think before you speak. Finish your beer."

I hastily obeyed, and donning our coats, we prepared to brave the chill and damp once more. However, as Holmes bent to pick up his hat, I saw him slip a piece of paper next to his untouched drink. I pretended not to have seen it, of course; but as he strode toward the door I contrived to glance at the note. It said, in a clear, uncompromising hand:

To Felicity, with kind regards, and in the earnest hope

that she will not forget to wear her spectacles.

He had not signed his name, however, and I never knew him enter that particular public-house again.

* * *

"Listen to this, Trevor," said Holmes. "You asked my opinion on Carlyle. It is unlike you, my dear, to be interested in anything so philosophical; indeed, if I did not know better I should suspect some imposture..." He gave a short, incredulous laugh. "Indeed, your sister is no fool."

"I told you that she would see through it," I replied. "And why should it matter what she thinks of Carlyle?"

"I was attempting to ascertain whether your sister's philosophical views might have some bearing on her situation." His keen eyes scanned the letter. "She certainly talks a great deal of impertinence about 'tiresome Germanic affectations' in Sartor Resartus. And then -- incredible! -- she actually has the temerity to pronounce that on the whole, Carlyle is rather to be pitied than feared. You really must read him more thoroughly, Trevor, so that you may disagree with her."

I had little interest in the debate, but I could at least be thankful that Holmes had not subjected my sister to the same experiment he had tried on some of our more literate and sensitive fellow students. When he heard anyone mention Carlyle, he would pretend to be wholly ignorant of who the man was and what he had done. The more appalled his victims were, the better it pleased him, for as he said to me afterward, "It shows that they have grasped the importance of his work." For her part, Vita would certainly have been astounded -- but only by Holmes's mendacity.

"Do you really think," I asked, "that she would be persecuted for disparaging Carlyle?"

"I am beginning to think that she ought to be," muttered Holmes, whose sour expression told me my sister had scored a point.

"Holmes!"

"I beg your pardon, Trevor." He laid the letter down upon the table. "No, of course not. Your aunt's household does not seem to be a stronghold of modern philosophy -- or of anything else, for that matter. I wonder that your sister can endure a setting so mundane."

"Oh, but she is well used to it," I said with a wry smile. "Father and I are as dull as bread and butter. Where Vita acquired her delicate sensibilities I cannot imagine -- unless reading half the library between the ages of three and twelve would account for it."

"And what did she do after the age of twelve?" inquired Holmes, then shook his head and held up a hand to prevent my answer. "Never mind; I know. She read the other half."

"It is not a large library, but I'm told it is a good one. I have no doubt you would approve of it. Father acquired it from the former owner when he bought the house, and no one but Vita has touched it since."

"That does much to commend your sister," said Holmes severely, "but very little to commend you."

I was not to be baited on this point, however, as it was an old argument, and one I was sure to lose. "I shall reply to her letter tonight," I said. "Are there any more controversial authors in whom I should feign interest for your sake? I am sure you would find her views on Darwin most provocative; and she has no end of insightful comments about Hume."

"Thank you, Trevor, that will not be necessary," said Holmes, ignoring my sarcasm. "I have done with questions for the present; and you may cease to share with me your sister's correspondence." He picked up the letter and impatiently turned over the remaining pages. "She does not appear to be providing us with any clues to her condition, and--"

All at once he stopped, staring at the last page, and a most extraordinary expression made its way across his features. Having read the letter already for myself, and knowing full well what he had seen, it was all I could do not to laugh; but I drew deeply on my cigarette and gazed out the window until the temptation had passed.

...I have been reading over your letters of the past few weeks, and it occurs to me that I have been shockingly negligent; I really should have thanked your Mr Holmes for being so concerned for my health. You may tell him that it was only a touch of catarrh, and that I am quite recovered; and if he wishes to contend with me about the virtues of Carlyle he is perfectly free to do so without fear of any tragic consequence.

Holmes looked up at me coldly. "You told her--"

"I told her nothing," I interrupted. "Yes, of course she knew of your existence; I had mentioned Caleb's assault, and your remarkable deductive abilities, at the beginning. But I never told her that you were reading her letters, and when I asked her about Carlyle I made every effort to make it seem as though the question was mine alone."

For a moment Holmes was silent, his gaze returning to the letter. Then his lips twisted into a wry, self-mocking smile. "Of course. When I detected the smell of camphor on that first letter, and told you your sister had been ill, you naturally inquired in your reply as to whether she had recovered. At the time she failed to mark the oddity; but when she read your most recent missive, the question about Carlyle -- which I admit was a careless blunder on my part -- aroused her suspicions.

"She knew you would never ask such a question on your own: who, then, had prompted you? Once she had located the letter where you questioned her about an illness she had never disclosed to you, and remembered your anecdotes about my deductive powers, the solution was elementary."

"Holmes, old fellow," I said, "I think the game is up."

"She will expect an explanation."

"She will," I said, "but I shall not give it to her. I shall leave that -- and Carlyle -- entirely up to you."

"Trevor! You were the one who--"

"I gave you her letters, yes. But the 'careless blunder' that led to our downfall was, by your own admission, yours." Try as I might, I could not keep a certain smugness from my tone as I added, "Don't worry, Holmes, I am sure you will explain yourself much better than I ever could."

"Ridiculous," he snapped. "I am not going to strike up a correspondence with a young lady I have never even met."

"Strike up a correspondence?" I asked mildly. "Good heavens, Holmes, whoever suggested anything of the kind?" I tossed the end of my cigarette into the glowing hearth, and rising, drew my sister's letter from his unresisting hands. "But since you seem so resolute-- "

"Good night, Trevor." Holmes's tone was ominous.

"Good night, Holmes." I smiled at him pleasantly, slipped the letter into my pocket and strolled out.

Perhaps he wondered why I had accepted his refusal so easily, but he could not have wondered long. Why should I argue with him over the letter, when I knew he had kept the envelope?

I never did learn precisely how Holmes managed to explain himself to Vita without betraying the dark suspicions that had prompted his interest; but there could be no doubt that his apology was accepted.

...please convey to Mr Holmes my gratitude for his kind note, and assure him that I am in no way offended.

By some unspoken understanding, they did not correspond directly thereafter: but I had difficulty fitting subsequent letters into the envelope, and Vita's replies were hardly less voluminous. Having exhausted all hope of agreement on Carlyle, they moved on to the less dangerous ground of Shakespeare. The result was a prolonged and enthusiastic dissection of Twelfth Night, during which I suffered such crippling pangs of ennui that I laid down my pen and insisted that Holmes write for himself.

"No, Trevor," he said, "if our conversation taxes you, I shall simply bring it to an end."

"Not at all!" I objected. "But you must see how absurd it is that I should be forever writing 'Mr Holmes wishes to know this,' and 'my friend Holmes thinks that.' I see no reason why I should not simply hand over the pen and let you finish the letter."

Holmes made no reply. He walked over to the hearth, drew the poker from its place, and thrust dispassionately at the coals.

"Holmes," I said. "Living with my aunt, my sister can find few friends of her age and station. I know of no one but you who shares her interests or can match her wit. If you cease to address her, Vita will say nothing, but I know she will be sorry."

For a long moment my friend remained silent, gazing at the leaping flames. Then he turned back to me, and I saw weariness and doubt in the lines of his mouth and his eyes, as though he had fought some arduous battle of which he did not know the outcome.

"Very well," he said.

I sighed. "My poor fingers thank you."

"As well they should," he replied, "since they still have some three thousand words' worth of discourse on the Magna Charta to record before tomorrow. Or had you forgotten?"

I put my head down on the desk. "Holmes," I murmured in despair, "why was I not born a man of science?"

"I already tremble at the thought of you in court, Trevor; if you ask me to imagine you in the laboratory, I am sure to have convulsions." He spoke dryly, but as he reached past me to collect the scattered pages of the letter, I felt his hand come down upon my shoulder in a gesture of wordless sympathy.

My heart warmed, and for the first time I truly felt that despite all our quarrels and differences, Sherlock Holmes was my closest friend. But no sooner had the thought formed itself in my mind than the slight pressure of his touch was gone; and when I looked up, so was he.

My nineteenth birthday fell just before the end of term, and Holmes and I celebrated with dinner in town. He made me a present of a handsome walking-stick that, coupled with the sumptuous meal, was surely beyond his means; but I knew him too well to hesitate about accepting the gift.

A light dusting of snow silvered the pavement as we walked back to my lodgings, and despite the warmth of wine and gratitude I found myself somewhat downcast. The sun had nearly set, and this was the first birthday I had ever spent apart from Vita. I knew I should see her at Christmas, which was not far away; but I could not help but think that on this day at least, she must feel our separation as keenly as I.

Holmes, for once, did not seem to notice my melancholy. Indeed, he appeared to be in unusually good spirits, humming a little tune to himself as we strolled along. No doubt, I thought, he was looking forward to the end of term; but I could not think why, as he had already announced his intention to spend the holiday in dreary London, working on some obscure monograph about tobacco ash. Apparently he maintained rooms there, which might account for why he lived so frugally while at College. He had a brother in London, as well, so I need not worry that he would languish bereft of Christmas cheer -- or so he had informed me, with a forbidding glance that ended all hope of further enlightenment.

"Good evening, Mrs Morrison," I called to my landlady as we entered the house and handed our coats to the fresh-faced maid. "Would you send up some coffee, if you please?"

Her broad, beaming face looked out at us from the doorway. "Right away, Mr Trevor," she replied. "Go right up; you've a lovely fire waiting."

Holmes shot her a look of curious intensity, then nodded, as though satisfied. To my surprise, he bent and inspected the bottom stair, where a little smear of mud could be seen. "Thank you, Mrs Morrison," he said, straightening up. "Well, Trevor?"

I said nothing, but handed my gloves to the maid and hurried up the short flight of stairs to my door, Holmes following close behind me. I laid my hand upon the knob, but to my surprise I felt it turn against my palm before I had even grasped it, and a second later it opened wide.

"Good evening, my dear Mr Fish," said Vita, smiling at my gaping mouth and staring eyes. "Won't you come in?"