the street
that was dark and old, underfoot old mire and mica-like glistening of
fresher rain. The Englishman spoke:

"Have you any news from home?"

"None. None for a long while. I had it conveyed to my kindred and to
an old friend that I had disappeared from Paris--gone eastward, Heaven
knew where--probably Crim Tartary! So my own world at least, as far as
I am concerned, will be off the scent. That was in the winter. I have
really heard nothing for months.... When the dawn comes up and we are
all rich and famed and gay, _my-lorded_ from John o' Groat's House to
Land's End--then, Warburton, then--"

"Then?"

"Then we'll be good!" Ian laughed. "Don't you want, sometimes, to be
good, Warburton? Wise--and simple. Doesn't it rise before you in the
night with a most unearthly beauty?"

"Oh, I think I am so-so good!" answered the other. "So-so bad, so-so
good. What puts you in this strain?"

"Tell me and I will tell you! And now I'm going to Scotland, into the
Highlands, to paint a prince who, when he's king, will, no manner of
doubt, wear the tartan and make every thane of Glamis thane of Cawdor
likewise!... One half the creature's body is an old, childish loyalty,
and the other half's ambition. The creature's myself. There are also
bars and circles and splashes of various colors, dark and bright.
Sometimes it dreams of wings--wings of an archangel, no less,
Warburton! The next moment there seems to be an impotency to produce
even beetle wings!... What a weathercock and variorum I am, thou art,
he is!"

"We're no worse than other men," said Warburton, comfortably. "We're
all pretty ignorant, I take it!"

They came to a building, old and not without some lingering of
strength and grace. It stood in the angle of two streets and received
sunshine and light as well as cross-tides of sound. The Scot and the
Englishman both lodged here, above a harness-maker and a worker in
fine woods. They passed into the court and to a stair that once had
known a constant, worldly-rich traffic up and down. Now it was still
and twilight, after the streets. Both men had affairs to put in order,
business on hand. They moved now abstractedly, and when Warburton
reached, upon the first landing, the door of his rooms, he turned
aside from Ian with only a negligent, "We'll sup together and say last
things then."

The Scot went on alone to the next landing and his own room. These
were not his usual lodgings in Paris. Agent now of high Jac