sh palace, encircled by a brilliant troop of soldiers, cheered
by an interested, good-humoured throng. Far back in their ranks, but
standing out above all heads, I saw his face, paler and thinner, more
gentle even and kindly. He wore a soft hat crushed over his forehead; as
I passed he lifted and waved it, smiling his old smile at me. I waved my
hand, leaning forward eagerly; but I could not stop the procession. As
soon as I was within I sent an equerry to seek him, armed with a
description that he could not mistake. But Geoffrey Owen was nowhere to
be found, he had not awaited my messenger. Having signalled a friend's
greeting across the gulf between us, he was gone. I could have found
him, for I knew that he dwelt in London, working, writing, awakening
hope in many, fear in some, thought in all. But I would not seek him
out, nor compel him to come to me, since he would not of his own accord.
So he went his way, I mine, and I have seen him no more. Yet ever on my
birthday I drain a cup to him, and none knows to whom the King drinks a
full glass silently. It is my libation on a friendship's grave. Perhaps
it would support an interpretation more subtle. For when I stood between
Owen and Hammerfeldt, torn this way and that, uncertain whom I should
follow through life, was not I the humble transitory theatre of a great
and secular struggle? It seems to me that then the Ideal and the Actual
joined in battle over me; Hector and Achilles, and I the body of
Patroclus! Alas, poor body! Greatly the combatants desire it, little
they reck of the roughness it suffers in their struggle! The Spirit and
the World--am I over-fanciful if I seem to see them incarnated in
Geoffrey Owen and old Hammerfeldt? And victory was with the world. Yet
the conquered also have before now left their mark on lands which they
could not hold.

CHAPTER V.

SOMETHING ABOUT VICTORIA.

I feel that I give involuntarily a darker colour to my life than the
truth warrants. When we sit down and reflect we are apt to become the
prey of a curious delusion; pain seems to us the only reality, pleasure
a phantasm or a dream. Yet such reality as pain has pleasure shares, and
we are in no closer touch with eternal truth when we have headaches (or
heartaches) than when we are free from these afflictions. I wonder
sometimes whether a false idea of dignity does not mislead us. Would we
all pose as martyrs? It is nonsense; for most of us life is a tolerable
enoug