to give me a contract for victualling the Academy. I wish he
had, for the boys' sake."

Then, to bring back completely the old times, Mr. Egger was prevailed
upon to sing one of his _Volkslieder_, that which had been Waymark's
especial favourite, and which he had sung--on an occasion memorable to
Sally and her husband--in the little dining-room at Richmond.

"_Die Schwalb'n flieg'n fort, doch sie zieh'n wieder her; Der Mensch
wenn er fortgeht, er kommt nimmermehr!_"

Waymark was silent for a little after that.

When it was nearly eleven o'clock, Casti looked once or twice meaningly
at Waymark, and the friends at length rose to take their leave, in
spite of much protest. O'Gree accompanied them as far as the spot where
they would meet the omnibus, then, with assurances that to-night had
been but the beginning of glorious times, sent them on their way.
Julian was silent during the journey home; he looked very wearied. For
lack of a timely conveyance the last mile or so had to be walked.
Julian's cough had been bad during the evening, and now the cold
night-air seemed to give him much trouble. Presently, just as they
turned a corner, a severe blast of wind met them full in the face.
Julian began coughing violently, and all at once became so weak that he
had to lean against a palisading. Waymark, looking closer in alarm, saw
that the handkerchief which the poor fellow was holding to his mouth
was covered with blood.

"We must have a cab," he exclaimed. "It is impossible for you to walk
in this state."

Julian resisted, with assurances that the worst was over for the time.
If Waymark would give the support of his arm, he would get on quite
well. There was no overcoming his resolution to proceed.

"There's no misunderstanding this, old fellow," he said, with a laugh,
when they had walked a few paces.

Waymark made no reply.

"You'll laugh at me," Julian went on, "but isn't there a certain
resemblance between my case and that of Keats? He too was a
drug-pounder; he liked it as little as I do; and he died young of
consumption. I suppose a dying man may speak the truth about himself. I
too might have been a poet, if life had dealt more kindly with me. I
think you would have liked the thing I was writing; I'd finished some
three hundred lines; but now you'll never see it. Well, I don't know
that it matters."

Waymark tried to speak in a tone of hopefulness, but it was hard to
give his words the semblance of sincerity