grasp your hand.'

He slowly released the young man's hand, and turned wearily away as
Durwent sank into his chair, his eyes staring into filmy space. Moving
clumsily across the room, De Foe reached the bar and ordered a drink.
When it had been poured out for him he turned about, and, leaning back
lazily, looked around the room, with his eyes almost hidden by the
close contraction of thick, black eyelashes. Such was the unique power
of his personality that the disjointed threads of conversation at the
various tables wound to a single end as if by a signal.

'_Mes amis_,' said De Foe--and his voice was low and sonorous--'I see
before me many, like myself, who have left behind them futures where
other men left only pasts. I see before me many, like myself, who had
the gift of creating exquisite, soul-stirring works of art and
literature. But because we were not content to be mere mouthy clowns,
with pen or brush, jabbering about the play of life, we have paid the
penalty for thinking we could be both subject and painter, author and
actor. Because we chose to live, we have failed. The world goes on
applauding its successful charlatans, its puny-visioned authors pouring
their thoughts of sawdust in the reeking trough of popularity; while
we, who know the taste of every bitter herb in all experience--we are
thrust aside as failures. . . . But the gift of prophecy is on me
to-night. There is a youth here who has a soul capable of scaling
heights where none of us could follow--and a soul that could sink to
depths that few of us have known. He is one of us, and he has chosen
to fight for England. I can see the glory of his death written in his
eyes. Gentlemen--you who are adrift with uncharted destinies--drink to
the boy of the sea-blue eyes. May he die worthy of himself and of us.'

Throughout the dimly lit room every one rose to his feet, incoherently
echoing the last words of the speaker. . . . Still with the filmy
wistfulness about his eyes and a tired, weary smile, Dick Durwent sat
in his chair beating a listless tattoo on the table with his hand.

From across the room came the sound of the old playwright's hacking
cough.

CHAPTER XV.

DICK DURWENT.

I.

Late that night Selwyn lay in his bed and listened to the softened
tones of his two guests conversing in the living-room, Johnston Smyth
having conceived such an attachment to his newly found friend that it
was quite impossible to persuade hi