good fellow he was!" Which also may be in its way a
valuable possession: who knows? But twenty years ago Peter's horizon was
limited by Fleet Street.

Peter Hope was forty-seven, so he said, a dreamer and a scholar. William
Clodd was three-and-twenty, a born hustler, very wide awake. Meeting one
day by accident upon an omnibus, when Clodd lent Peter, who had come out
without his purse, threepence to pay his fare with; drifting into
acquaintanceship, each had come to acquire a liking and respect for the
other. The dreamer thought with wonder of Clodd's shrewd practicability;
the cute young man of business was lost in admiration of what seemed to
him his old friend's marvellous learning. Both had arrived at the
conclusion that a weekly journal with Peter Hope as editor, and William
Clodd as manager, would be bound to be successful.

"If only we could scrape together a thousand pounds!" had sighed Peter.

"The moment we lay our hands upon the coin, we'll start that paper.
Remember, it's a bargain," had answered William Clodd.

Mr. William Clodd turned the handle and walked in. With the door still
in his hand he paused to look round the room. It was the first time he
had seen it. His meetings hitherto with Peter Hope had been chance
_rencontres_ in street or restaurant. Always had he been curious to view
the sanctuary of so much erudition.

A large, oak-panelled room, its three high windows, each with a low,
cushioned seat beneath it, giving on to Gough Square. Thirty-five years
before, Peter Hope, then a young dandy with side whiskers close-cropped
and terminating just below the ear; with wavy, brown hair, giving to his
fresh-complexioned face an appearance almost girlish; in cut-away blue
coat, flowered waistcoat, black silk cravat secured by two gold pins
chained together, and tightly strapped grey trouserings, had, aided and
abetted by a fragile little lady in crinoline and much-flounced skirt,
and bodice somewhat low, with corkscrew curls each movement of her head
set ringing, planned and furnished it in accordance with the sober canons
then in vogue, spending thereupon more than they should, as is to be
expected from the young to whom the future promises all things. The fine
Brussels carpet! A little too bright, had thought the shaking curls.
"The colours will tone down, miss--ma'am." The shopman knew. Only by
the help of the round island underneath the massive Empire table, by
excursions into untr