ever
expected to do very much as a barrister, but he thought it well to have
something to fall back on, and declared that the drudgery of the reading
would do him good. He was also writing as usual, and he used to spend
two evenings a week at Whitechapel, where he taught one of the classes
in connection with Toynbee Hall, and where he gained that knowledge
of East-end life which is conspicuous in his third book--'Dick Carew.'
This, with an ever increasing and often very burdensome correspondence,
brought to him by his books, and with a fair share of dinners, 'At
Homes,' and so forth, made his life a full one. In a quiet sort of way I
believe he was happy during this time. But later on, when, my trouble
at an end, I had migrated to a house of my own, and he was left alone in
the Montague Street rooms, his spirits somehow flagged.

Fame is, after all, a hollow, unsatisfying thing to a man of his nature.
He heartily enjoyed his success, he delighted in hearing that his books
had given pleasure or had been of use to anyone, but no public victory
could in the least make up to him for the loss he had suffered in his
private life; indeed, I almost think there were times when his triumphs
as an author seemed to him utterly worthless--days of depression when
the congratulations of his friends were nothing but a mockery. He had
gained a striking success, it is true, but he had lost Freda; he was in
the position of the starving man who has received a gift of bon-bons,
but so craves for bread that they half sicken him. I used now and
then to watch his face when, as often happened, someone said: "What
an enviable fellow you are, Vaughan, to get on like this!" or, "What
wouldn't I give to change places with you!" He would invariably smile
and turn the conversation; but there was a look in his eyes at such
times that I hated to see--it always made me think of Mrs. Browning's
poem, 'The Mask':

"Behind no prison-grate, she said,
Which slurs the sunshine half a mile,
Live captives so uncomforted
As souls behind a smile."

As to the Merrifields, there was no chance of seeing them, for Sir
Richard had gone to India in some official capacity, and no doubt,
as everyone said, they would take good care to marry Freda out there.
Derrick had not seen her since that trying February at Bath, long ago.
Yet I fancy she was never out of his thoughts.

And so the years rolled on, and Derrick worked away steadily, givi