doors with varying fortunes.
Sometimes he came away with a cheque, but more often with a bulky
manuscript bulging his pocket. When tired of setting down imaginary
woes he had time to think of his own; but being a cheerful youth, with
an indomitable spirit, he banished trouble by interesting himself in the
cheap world. By this is meant the world which costs no money to
view--the world of the street. Here he witnessed the drama of humanity
from morning till night, and from sunset till dawn, and on the whole
witnessed very good acting. The poorer parts in the human comedy were
particularly well played, and starving folks were quite dramatic in
their demands for food. Note-book in hand, Paul witnessed spectacular
shows in the West End, grotesque farces in the Strand, melodrama in
Whitechapel and tragedy on Waterloo Bridge at midnight. Indeed, he quite
spoiled the effect of a sensation scene by tugging at the skirts of a
starving heroine who wished to take a river journey into the next world.
But for the most part, he remained a spectator and plagiarised from real
life.

Shortly, the great manager of the Universal Theatre enlisted Paul as an
actor, and he assumed the double _role_ of an unappreciated author and a
sighing lover. In the first capacity he had in his desk ten short
stories, a couple of novels, three dramas and a sheaf of doubtful
verses. These failed to appeal to editor, manager or publisher, and
their author found himself reduced to his last five-pound note. Then the
foolish, ardent lad must needs fall in love. Who his divinity was, what
she was, and why she should be divinised, can be gathered from a
conversation her worshipper held with an old school-fellow.

It was in Oxford Street at five o'clock on a June afternoon that Paul
met Grexon Hay. Turning the corner of the street leading to his
Bloomsbury attic, the author was tapped on the shoulder by a resplendent
Bond Street being. That is, the said being wore a perfectly-fitting
frock-coat, a silk hat, trousers with the regulation fold back and
front, an orchid buttonhole, grey gloves, boots that glittered, and
carried a gold-topped cane. The fact that Paul wheeled without wincing
showed that he was not yet in debt. Your Grub Street old-time author
would have leaped his own length at the touch. But Paul, with a clean
conscience, turned slowly, and gazed without recognition into the
clean-shaven, calm, cold face that confronted his inquiring eyes.

"Beecot!