te. I think most of classical Italy. I am no
scholar, but I love the Latin writers, and can forget myself for hours,
working through Livy or Tacitus. I want to see the ruins of Rome; I
want to see the Tiber, the Clitumnus, the Aufidus, the Alban Hills,
Lake Trasimenus,--a thousand places! It is strange how those old times
have taken hold upon me. The mere names in Roman history make my blood
warm.--And there is so little chance that I shall ever be able to go
there; so little chance."

Waymark had watched the glowing face with some surprise.

"Why, this is famous!" he exclaimed. "We shall suit each other
splendidly. Who knows? We may see Italy together, and look back upon
these times of miserable struggle. By the by, have you ever written
verses?"

Julian reddened, like a girl.

"I have tried to," he said.

"And do still?"

"Sometimes."

"I thought as much. Some day you shall let me hear them; won't you? And
I will read you some of my own. But mine are in the savage vein, a mere
railing against the universe, altogether too furious to be anything
like poetry; I know that well enough. I have long since made up my mind
to stick to prose; it is the true medium for a polemical egotist. I
want to find some new form of satire; I feel capabilities that way
which shall by no means rust unused. It has pleased Heaven to give me a
splenetic disposition, and some day or other I shall find the tongue."

It was midnight before Julian rose to leave, and he was surprised when
he discovered how time had flown. Waymark insisted on his guest's
having some supper before setting out on his walk home; he brought out
of a cupboard a tin of Australian mutton, which, with bread and
pickles, afforded a very tolerable meal after four hours' talk. They
then left the house together, and Waymark accompanied his friend as far
as Westminster Bridge.

"It's too bad to have brought you so far at this hour," said Julian, as
they parted.

"Oh, it is my hour for walking," was the reply. "London streets at
night are my element. Depend upon it, Rome was poor in comparison!"

He went off laughing and waving his hand.

CHAPTER VII

BETWEEN OLD AND NEW

Julian Casti's uncle had been three years dead. It was well for him
that he lived no longer; his business had continued to dwindle, and the
last months of the poor man's life were embittered by the prospect of
inevitable bankruptcy. He died of an overdose of some opiate, which the
angu