h misery, absurd as it may sound. My
blood seemed too hot, seemed to be swelling out the veins beyond
endurance. As a rule I get over these moods by furious walking about
the streets half through the night, but I couldn't even do that. I had
no money to go in for dissipation: that often helps me. Every book was
loathsome to me. My landlady must have overheard something, for she
came in and began a conversation about God knows what; I fear I
mortally offended her; I could have pitched the poor old woman out of
the window! Heavens, how did I get through those nights?"

"And the fit has passed?" inquired Julian when the other ceased.

"The Lord be praised; yes!" Waymark laughed half-scornfully. "There
came an editor's note, accepting a thing that had been going from
magazine to magazine for three months. This snatched me up into furious
spirits. I rushed out to a theatre, drank more than was good for me,
made a fool of myself in general,--and then received your letter. Good
luck never comes singly."

Julian had watched the strange workings of Waymark's face with close
interest. When the latter suddenly turned his eyes, as if to see the
effect of all his frankness, Casti coloured slightly and looked away,
but with a look of friendly sympathy.

"Do I shock you?" asked the other. "Do you think me rather too much of
an animal, for all my spiritual longings?"

"Certainly not, I can well understand you, I believe."

The conversation passed to quieter things. Julian seemed afraid of
saying too much about his own experiences, but found opportunities of
showing his acquaintance with English poetry, which was quite as
extensive as that of his new friend, excepting in the case of a few
writers of the day, whom he had not been able to procure. He had taught
himself Italian, too, and had read considerably in that language. He
explained that his father was an Italian, but had died when he himself
was still an infant.

"You have been in Italy?" asked Waymark, with interest.

A strange look came over Julian's features, a look at once bright and
melancholy; his fine eyes gleamed as was their wont eight years ago, in
the back-parlour in Boston Street, when he was telling tales from
Plutarch.

"Not," he said, in a low voice charged with feeling, "since I was three
years old.--You will think it strange, but I don't so much long for the
modern Italy, for the beautiful scenery and climate, not even for the
Italy of Raphael, or of Dan