n adoring on
his knees. The parting was as strange as the meeting, and that night when
he laid his work aside, and let himself sink deep into the joys of
memory, all the encounter seemed as wonderful and impossible as magic.

"And you really don't mean to do anything about those rascals?" said his
father.

"Rascals? Which rascals? Oh, you mean Beit. I had forgotten all about it.
No; I don't think I shall trouble. They're not worth powder and shot."

And he returned to his dream, pacing slowly from the medlar to the quince
and back again. It seemed trivial to be interrupted by such questions; he
had not even time to think of the book he had recommenced so eagerly,
much less of this labor of long ago. He recollected without interest that
it cost him many pains, that it was pretty good here and there, and that
it had been stolen, and it seemed that there was nothing more to be said
on the matter. He wished to think of the darkness in the lane, of the
kind voice that spoke to him, of the kind hand that sought his own, as he
stumbled on the rough way. So far, it was wonderful. Since he had left
school and lost the company of the worthy barbarians who had befriended
him there, he had almost lost the sense of kinship with humanity; he had
come to dread the human form as men dread the hood of the cobra. To
Lucian a man or a woman meant something that stung, that spoke words that
rankled, and poisoned his life with scorn. At first such malignity
shocked him: he would ponder over words and glances and wonder if he were
not mistaken, and he still sought now an then for sympathy. The poor boy
had romantic ideas about women; he believed they were merciful and
pitiful, very kind to the unlucky and helpless. Men perhaps had to be
different; after all, the duty of a man was to get on in the world, or,
in plain language, to make money, to be successful; to cheat rather than
to be cheated, but always to be successful; and he could understand that
one who fell below this high standard must expect to be severely judged
by his fellows. For example, there was young Bennett, Miss Spurry's
nephew. Lucian had met him once or twice when he was spending his
holidays with Miss Spurry, and the two young fellows compared literary
notes together. Bennett showed some beautiful things he had written, over
which Lucian had grown both sad and enthusiastic. It was such exquisite
magic verse, and so much better than anything he ever hoped to write,
that