e little goblin
dwelling pulsated as if it were alarmed. Only the continued calm of Mrs.
Melville at her knitting and the coarse threads of music running through
the sound persuaded him that this riot was the result of some genial
human activity.

"Oh, I suppose you notice it, being a stranger," said Mrs. Melville. "We
hardly hear it now. You see, they've turned the Wesleyan Hall that backs
on to the Square into a dancing-hall, and this is the grand noise they
make with their feet. It's not a nice place. 'Gentlemen a shilling,
ladies invited,' it says outside. Still, we don't complain, for the
noise is nothing noticeable and it reduces the rent."

This was a masterpiece of circumstance. By nothing more than a thin wall
which shook to music was this little home divided from a thick-aired
place where ugly people lurched against each other lustfully; and yet it
had been made an impregnable fort of loveliness and decency by this
virtuous ageing woman, whose slight silliness was but a holy abstinence,
a refusal to side with common sense because that was so often concerned
in cruel decisions, by this girl who was so young that it seemed at the
sight of her as if time had turned back again and earth rolled unstained
by history, and so beautiful that it seemed as if henceforth eternity
could frame nothing but happiness. The smile of Ellen had made a faery
ring where heavy-footed dancers could not enter; her gravity had made a
sanctuary as safe as any church crowned with a belfry and casketing the
Host. And he, participating in the safety of the place, pitied the men
behind the shaking wall, and all men over the world who had committed
themselves to that search for pleasure which makes joy inaccessible.
They had chosen frustration for their destiny. Because they desired some
ecstasy that would lighten the leaden substance of life they turned to
drunkenness, which did no more than jumble reality, steep the earth in
aniline dyes, tinge the sunset with magenta. Because they desired love
they sought out women who, although dedicated to sex, were sexually
cancelled by repeated use, like postage-stamps on a much re-directed
letter, who efficiently went through the form of passion, yet presented
it so empty of all exaltation that their lovers left them feeling as if
they were victims of a practical joke.

And here, not half a dozen yards from some of these seekers, was one who
could bring to these desires a lovelier death than they w