in at the narrow door a man who had come up from the lower end
of the street jostled against him.

"I beg your pardon--wasn't looking where I was going. Why, it's Dyson!"

"Yes, quite so. How are you, Salisbury?"

"Quite well. But where have you been, Dyson? I don't think I can have
seen you for the last five years."

"No; I dare say not. You remember I was getting rather hard up when you
came to my place at Charlotte Street?"

"Perfectly. I think I remember your telling me that you owed five
weeks' rent, and that you had parted with your watch for a
comparatively small sum."

"My dear Salisbury, your memory is admirable. Yes, I was hard up. But
the curious thing is that soon after you saw me I became harder up. My
financial state was described by a friend as 'stone broke.' I don't
approve of slang, mind you, but such was my condition. But suppose we
go in; there might be other people who would like to dine--it's a human
weakness, Salisbury."

"Certainly; come along. I was wondering as I walked down whether the
corner table were taken. It has a velvet back, you know."

"I know the spot; it's vacant. Yes, as I was saying, I became even
harder up."

"What did you do then?" asked Salisbury, disposing of his hat, and
settling down in the corner of the seat, with a glance of fond
anticipation at the _menu_.

"What did I do? Why, I sat down and reflected. I had a good classical
education, and a positive distaste for business of any kind; that was
the capital with which I faced the world. Do you know, I have heard
people describe olives as nasty! What lamentable philistinism! I have
often thought, Salisbury, that I could write genuine poetry under the
influence of olives and red wine. Let us have Chianti; it may not be
very good, but the flasks are simply charming."

"It is pretty good here. We may as well have a big flask."

"Very good. I reflected, then, on my want of prospects, and I
determined to embark in literature."

"Really, that was strange. You seem in pretty comfortable
circumstances, though."

"Though! What a satire upon a noble profession. I am afraid, Salisbury,
you haven't a proper idea of the dignity of an artist. You see me
sitting at my desk,--or at least you can see me if you care to
call,--with pen and ink, and simple nothingness before me, and if you
come again in a few hours you will (in all probability) find a
creation!"

"Yes, quite so. I had an idea that literature was not remunerat