pleasure. I shall be the making of
you," St. George smiled. "I was greatly struck, after our talk, with the
brave devoted way you quitted the country, and still more perhaps with
your force of character in remaining abroad. You're very strong--you're
wonderfully strong."

Paul tried to sound his shining eyes; the strange thing was that he
seemed sincere--not a mocking fiend. He turned away, and as he did so
heard the Master say something about his giving them all the proof, being
the joy of his old age. He faced him again, taking another look. "Do
you mean to say you've stopped writing?"

"My dear fellow, of course I have. It's too late. Didn't I tell you?"

"I can't believe it!"

"Of course you can't--with your own talent! No, no; for the rest of my
life I shall only read _you_."

"Does she know that--Miss Fancourt?"

"She will--she will." Did he mean this, our young man wondered, as a
covert intimation that the assistance he should derive from that young
lady's fortune, moderate as it was, would make the difference of putting
it in his power to cease to work ungratefully an exhausted vein? Somehow,
standing there in the ripeness of his successful manhood, he didn't
suggest that any of his veins were exhausted. "Don't you remember the
moral I offered myself to you that night as pointing?" St. George
continued. "Consider at any rate the warning I am at present."

This was too much--he _was_ the mocking fiend. Paul turned from him with
a mere nod for good-night and the sense in a sore heart that he might
come back to him and his easy grace, his fine way of arranging things,
some time in the far future, but couldn't fraternise with him now. It
was necessary to his soreness to believe for the hour in the intensity of
his grievance--all the more cruel for its not being a legal one. It was
doubtless in the attitude of hugging this wrong that he descended the
stairs without taking leave of Miss Fancourt, who hadn't been in view at
the moment he quitted the room. He was glad to get out into the honest
dusky unsophisticating night, to move fast, to take his way home on foot.
He walked a long time, going astray, paying no attention. He was
thinking of too many other things. His steps recovered their direction,
however, and at the end of an hour he found himself before his door in
the small inexpensive empty street. He lingered, questioning himself
still before going in, with nothing around and above h