he did not go to elizabeth that night: he walked, in a dream, past knightsbridge and up piccadilly, contemplating the fulfilment of all his dreams. everything seemed possible now. he was a young man—and ferrol was going to give him paris; he was a young man—and elizabeth had given him her love. the sequence of this thought was significant.

it would be very fine to tell her.... at last he was lifted out of the rut into a field of new endeavour. from paris the path led to other cities, of course—to petersburg, vienna, and rome. one day he would see them all. life became at once very broad and open.

he walked on, an un-noteworthy figure in the throng of people that moved along piccadilly, his thoughts surging with the prospects of his new life.

"humphrey quain ... paris correspondent of the day."

he murmured that to himself. glorious title! splendid ferrol. how noble was this work in fleet street, holding out great promises to those who served it well, and sacrificed everything on its altar. how could one abandon a calling where fortune may change in a moment?

he passed through astonishing ranks of women whose eyes and lips simulated love: one or two of them spoke to him in foreign accents. he passed on across the circus where the lights of the variety theatres made a blur of yellow in the nebulous night.

his steps led him again to fleet street, and he walked with the joy of a man treading the soil of his own[278] country. it was always the same when he passed the griffin: deep satisfaction took hold of him at the sight of the signs in all the buildings, telling of newspapers all the world over, in this narrow street in which the lives of him and his kind were centred. the fascination of the street was perpetual. it belonged to him. it belonged to all of them. at every hour of the day and night there were always friends to be met.

he turned into the cheery warmth of the pen club—friends everywhere and fleet street smiling! there was laughter at the wooden counter, where larkin was telling some story to a group of men.

"well, the next day i thought i'd go up and inquire after his lordship's health. the butler was very kind. 'come in,' he said. 'his lordship's expecting you.' so up i went, thinking i was going to get a fine story—he was supposed to be dangerously ill in bed, mind you."

humphrey joined the group and listened. ("have a drink?" said larkin, turning to him. "it's my shout.")

"well," continued larkin, "when i got to the room, there was his lordship in pants and undervest—you know how fat he is—with dumb-bells in his hands and whirling his arms about like a windmill. 'do i look like a dying man?' he said, dancing lightly on his toes. 'go back, young man, and tell your editor what you've seen. good-morning.'"

"talking of funny experiences," said one of the others, "i remember—" and so it went on, story after story, of real things happening in the most extraordinary way. it was all this that humphrey enjoyed, this inter-change of experiences, this telling of stories that were never written in newspapers, that belonged alone to them.

presently tommy pride came in. "hullo all!" he said, "hullo! young quain—been busy to-day?"

[279]

they sat down together, and humphrey noticed that tommy's face had changed greatly, even in the last few months. the flesh was loose and colourless, and the eyes had a nervous, wandering look in them.

"ferrol's going to send me to paris—he told me so to-night," humphrey blurted out.

"splendid," said tommy. "good for you." and then a look of great pathos crept into his eyes, and he seemed to grow very old all at once. "i wish i had all your chances," he said wistfully. "i wonder what will be the end of me.... i hear they're making changes."

"don't you bother," humphrey said. "ferrol knows what you're worth.... but, i say, tommy, you don't mind, do you ... aren't you taking too much of that," he pointed to the whisky glass.

"oh, hell! what does it matter," said tommy. "what does anything matter.... i'm a little worried ... they're thinking of making changes," he repeated aimlessly.

it was all settled in a few minutes the next morning. the paris appointment was definitely confirmed: he was to leave immediately. he hastened to elizabeth to tell her the wonderful news. it never occurred to him that she could be otherwise than pleased and proud at his success. but her manner was recondite and baffling.

"have you accepted the post?" she asked.

"why, of course," he said. "how could i refuse such a chance."

she regarded him dubiously. "no—you could not refuse it. i don't blame you for not refusing it. i think i know how you feel...."

"it's splendid!" humphrey cried. his voice rang with enthusiasm. "fancy ferrol singling me out. it[280] will be the making of me.... it might lead to anything."

"but weren't you only going to stay in journalism for another year, humphrey?"

"oh, of course, when i said that, i couldn't foresee that this was going to happen.... elizabeth," he said suddenly, with a great fear on him, "do you want me to give it up now?"

"no ... no," she said in haste. "you don't understand. it's so difficult to make you see. i wasn't prepared for this...." she laughed for no reason at all. "i am glad of your success. i am glad you're happy.... of course, you don't expect me to come to paris, like this, at a moment's notice. you must give me time."

he smiled with relief. "why, of course, i didn't imagine i could carry you away at once.... but after a few months, perhaps. it will take me a few months to get used to the work."

"yes," she agreed, "after a few months. we shall see."

her face was strangely sorrowful. her attitude perplexed him. it hurt him to find that she did not share in his rejoicings. it took away some of the savour of his success.

he thought he was the master of his destiny. he could not discern the hand of ferrol moving him again towards a crisis in his life.