rvey of his field,
he moved timidly into the Square, and sought the number; having found
it with unexpected suddenness, he hurried past. To be detected here
would be dreadful; he durst not go to the opposite side, lest Irene
should perchance be at a window; yet he wanted to observe the house,
and did, from behind his umbrella, when a few doors away.

Never had he known what it was to feel such an insignificant mortal.
Standing here in the rain, he saw no distinction between himself and
the ragged, muddy crossing-sweeper; alike, they were lost in the huge
welter of common London. On the other hand, there in the hard-fronted,
exclusive-looking house sat Irene Derwent, a pearl of women, the prize
of wealth, distinction, and high manliness. What was this wild dream he
had been harbouring? Like a chill wind, reality smote him in the face;
he turned away, saying to himself that he was cured of folly.

On the journey home he shaped a project. He would seek an interview
with the head of the City house in which he had spent so much time and
worked so conscientiously, a quite approachable man as he knew from
experience, and would ask if he might be allowed to re-enter their
service not, however, in London, but in their place of business at
Odessa. He had made a good beginning with Russian, and living in
Russia, might hope soon to master the language. If necessary, he would
support himself at Odessa for a time, until he was capable of serving
the firm in some position of trust. Yes, this was what he would do; it
gave him a new hope. For Alexander, foolish fellow as he might be in
some respects, had spoken the truth on the subject of money-making; the
best and surest way was by honourable commerce. Money he must have; a
substantial position; a prospect of social advance. Not for their own
sake, these things, but as steps to the only end he felt worth living
for--an ideal marriage.

He marvelled that the end of life should have been so obscure to him
hitherto. Knowledge! What satisfaction was there in that? Fame! What
profit in that by itself? Yet he had thought these aims predominant;
had been willing to toil day and night in such pursuits. His eyes were
opened. His first torturing love might be for ever frustrate, but it
had revealed him to himself. He looked forth upon the world, its
activities, its glories, and behold there was for him but one prize
worth winning, the love of the ideal woman.

He found a letter at Ewell. It