was simply wonderful helped him upon his way. He had but to stand
at the gate of a palace to become in an instant one of those who peopled
it. He could create himself king, or prince, or bishop as the mood took
him. If a holiday sent him to the theatre, he was the hero or villain at
his choice. In church he would preach well-imagined sermons to
spellbound listeners. The streets of the West End were his true
world--the gate without the scene of his mental pleasures.

He had no friends among the youths and lads of Thrawl Street and its
environment, nor did he seek them. Those who hung about him were soon
repelled by his secretive manner and a diffidence which was little more
than natural shyness. If he fell now and then into the speech of the
alleys, constant association was responsible for the lapse. Sometimes,
it is true, an acquaintance would defy the snub and thrust himself
stubbornly upon the unwilling wanderer. Alban was never unkind to such
as these. He pitied these folk from his very heart; but before them all,
he pitied himself.

His favorite walk was to the precincts of Westminster School, where he
had spent two short terms before his father died. The influence of this
life had never quite passed away. Alban would steal across London by
night and stand at the gate of Little Dean's Yard as though wondering
still what justice or right of destiny had driven him forth. He would
haunt St. Vincent's Square on Saturday afternoons, and, taking his stand
among all the little ragged boys who watched the cricket or football, he
would, in imagination, become a "pink" delighting the multitude by a
century or kicking goals so many that the very Press was startled. In
the intervals he revisited the Abbey and tried to remember the service
as he had known it when a schoolboy. The sonorous words of Tudor divines
remained within his memory, but the heart of them had gone out. What had
he to be thankful for now? Did he not earn his bitter bread by a task so
laborious that the very poor might shun it. His father would have made
an engineer of him if he had lived--so much had been quite decided. He
could tell you the names of lads who had been at Westminster with him
and were now at Oxford or Cambridge enjoying those young years which no
subsequent fortune can recall. What had he done to the God who ruled the
world that these were denied to him? Was he not born a gentleman, as the
world understands the term? Had he not worn good clo