* *

He envied those who had beaten him in the race, he frankly admitted it;
but he must also allow himself the luxury of despising them.

* * * * *

Melrose was late.

Faversham rose and hobbled to the window, his hands on his sides,
frowning--a gaunt figure in the rainy light. With the return of physical
strength there had come a passionate renewal of desire--desire for
happiness and success. The figure of Lydia Penfold hovered perpetually
in his mind. Marriage!--his whole being, moral and physical, cried out
for it. But how was he ever to marry?--how could he ever give such a
woman as that the setting and the scope she could reasonably claim?

"A bad day!" said a harsh voice behind him, "but all the better for
business."

Faversham turned to greet his host, the mental and physical nerves
tightening.

"Good morning. Well, here I am"--his laugh showed his nervousness--"at
your disposal."

He settled himself in his chair. Melrose took a cigarette from the table,
and offered one to his guest. He lit and smoked in silence for a few
moments, then began to speak with deliberation:

"I gather from our conversations, Faversham, during the last few weeks
that you have at the present moment no immediate or pressing occupation?"

Quick colour leapt in Faversham's lean cheek.

"That is true. It happens to be true--for various reasons. But if you
mean to imply by that, that I am necessarily--or willingly--an idler, you
are mistaken."

"I did not mean to imply anything of the kind. I merely wished, so to
speak, to clear the way for what I have to propose."

Faversham nodded. Melrose continued:

"For clearly it would be an impertinence on my part were I to
attempt--suddenly--to lift a man out of a fixed groove and career, and
suggest to him another. I should expect to be sent to the devil--and
serve me right. But in your case--correct me if I am wrong--you seem
not yet to have discovered the groove that suits you. Now I am here to
propose to you a groove--and a career."

Faversham looked at him with astonishment. The gems, which had been so
urgently present to his mind, receded from it. Melrose in his skullcap,
sitting sideways in his chair, his cigarette held aloft, presented a
profile which might have been that of some Venetian Doge, old, withered
and crafty, engaged, say, in negotiation with a Genoese envoy.

"When you were first brought here," Melrose continued--"you