e
formal, for their approaching separation did not, as a matter of fact,
make him particularly unhappy.

Holroyd had always cared for him much more than he had cared for
Holroyd, for whom Mark's friendship had been a matter of circumstance
rather than deliberate preference. They had been quartered in the same
lodgings at Cambridge, and had afterwards 'kept' on the same staircase
in college, which had led to a more or less daily companionship, a
sort of intimacy that is not always strong enough to bear
transplantation to town.

Holroyd had taken care that it should survive their college days; for
he had an odd liking for Mark, in spite of a tolerably clear insight
into his character. Mark had a way of inspiring friendships without
much effort on his part, and this undemonstrative, self-contained man
felt an affection for him which was stronger than he ever allowed
himself to show.

Mark, for his part, had begun to feel an increasing constraint in the
company of a friend who had an unpleasantly keen eye for his weak
points, and with whom he was always conscious of a certain inferiority
which, as he could discover no reason for it, galled his vanity the
more.

His careless tone wounded Holroyd, who had hoped for some warmer
response; and they walked on in silence until they turned into Hyde
Park and crossed to Rotten Row, when Mark said, 'By the way, Vincent,
wasn't there something you wanted to speak to me about?'

'I wanted to ask a favour of you; it won't give you much trouble,'
said Holroyd.

'Oh, in that case, if it's anything I _can_ do, you know--but what is
it?'

'Well,' said Holroyd, 'the fact is--I never told a soul till now--but
I've written a book.'

'Never mind, old boy,' said Mark, with a light laugh; for the
confession, or perhaps a certain embarrassment with which it was made,
seemed to put Holroyd more on a level with himself. 'So have lots of
fellows, and no one thinks any the worse of them--unless they print
it. Is it a law book?'

'Not exactly,' said Holroyd; 'it's a romance.'

'A romance!' cried Mark. 'You!'

'Yes,' said Holroyd, 'I. I've always been something of a dreamer, and
I amused myself by putting one of my dreams down on paper. I wasn't
disturbed.'

'You've been called though, haven't you?'

'I never got up,' said Holroyd, with a rather melancholy grimace. 'I
began well enough. I used to come up to chambers by ten and leave at
half-past six, after noting up reports and text-