eem; he judged his
abilities more accurately, and more severely, than any observer would
have done; yet it was plain to him that he would be more than capable,
so far as endowment went, of filling the high place occupied by this or
the other far-shining personage. He frankly envied their
success--always for one and the same reason.

Nothing so goaded his imagination as a report of the marriage of some
leader in the world's game. He dwelt on these paragraphs, filled up the
details, grew faint with realisation of the man's triumphant happiness.
At another moment, his reason ridiculed this self-torment. He knew that
in all probability such a marriage implied no sense of triumph,
involved no high emotions, promised nothing but the commonest domestic
satisfaction. Portraits of brides in an illustrated paper sometimes
wrought him to intolerable agitation--the mood of his early manhood, as
when he stood before the print shop in the Haymarket; now that he had
lost Irene, the whole world of beautiful women called again to his
senses and his soul. With the cooler moment came a reminder that these
lovely faces were for the most part mere masks, tricking out a very
ordinary woman, more likely than not unintelligent, unhelpful, as the
ordinary human being of either sex is wont to be. What seemed to _him_
the crown of a man's career, was, in most cases, a mere incident,
deriving its chief importance from social and pecuniary considerations.
Even where a sweet countenance told truth about the life behind it, how
seldom did the bridegroom appreciate what he had won! For the most
part, men who have great good fortune, in marriage, or in anything
else, are incapable of tasting their success. It is the imaginative
being in the crowd below who marvels and is thrilled.

How was it with Arnold Jacks? Did he understand what had befallen him?
If so, on what gleaming heights did he now live and move! What rapture
of gratitude must possess the man! What humility! What arrogance!

Piers had not met him since the engagement was made known; he hoped not
to meet him for a long time. Happily, in this holiday season, there was
no fear of an invitation to Queen's Gate.

Yet the unexpected happened. Early in September, he received a note
from John Jacks, asking him to dine. The writer said that he had been
at the seaside, and was tired of it, and meant to spend a week or two
quietly in London; he was quite alone, so Otway need not dress.

Reassured