isn't quite tall enough to be a show-giant--they have to be over seven
feet--otherwise he might at any rate try the music-hall stage. Then the
manager of a West End restaurant catches sight of him one day, and
offers him a place as doorkeeper at a pound a week and tips. He refuses
it indignantly. But after a week or two more of hunger he changes his
mind and accepts. And this man who has the soul and the brains of a
great artist is reduced to taking sixpences for opening cab-doors.'

'Does it end there?'

'No. It's a sad story, I'm afraid. He dies one night in the snow outside
the restaurant, while the rich noodles are gorging themselves inside to
the music of a band. Consumption.'

'It's the most original story I ever heard in all my life,' said
Geraldine enthusiastically.

'Do you think so?'

'I do, honestly. What are you going to call it--if I may ask?'

'Call it?' He hesitated a second. '_A Question of Cubits_,' he said.

'You are simply wonderful at titles,' she observed. 'Thank you. Thank
you so much.'

'No one else knows,' he finished.

When he had seen her safely to Chenies Street, and was travelling to
Dawes Road in a cab, he felt perfectly happy. The story had come to him
almost by itself. It had been coming all the evening, even while he was
in the box, even while he was lost in admiration of Geraldine. It had
cost him nothing. He knew he could write it with perfect ease. And
Geraldine admired it! It was the most original story she had ever heard
in all her life! He himself thought it extremely original, too. He saw
now how foolish and premature had been his fears for the future. Of
course he had studied human nature. Of course he had been through the
mill, and practised style. Had he not won the prize for composition at
the age of twelve? And was there not the tangible evidence of his essays
for the Polytechnic, not to mention his continual work for Sir George?

He crept upstairs to his bedroom joyous, jaunty, exultant.

'Is that you, Henry?' It was Aunt Annie's inquiry.

'Yes,' he answered, safely within his room.

'How late you are! It's half-past twelve and more.'

'I got lost,' he explained to her.

But he could not explain to himself what instinct had forced him to
conceal from his adoring relatives the fact that he had bought a suit of
dress-clothes, put them on, and sallied forth in them to spend an
evening with a young lady.

Just as he was dropping off to sleep and beauteous v