l had changed his
nature. His past was blotted out. Mr. Jubal looked upon himself as
an Englishman born and bred, spoke with a foreign accent, grew
side-whiskers and wore very high collars; a checked suit grew round him
as the bark grows round a tree, apparently without any effort on his
part. He carried himself stiffly, and when he met a friend in the street
he acknowledged his friendly bow with the flicker of an eyelid. He never
turned round if anybody called after him, and he always stood right in
the middle of a street car.

He hardly knew himself.

He was now at home again, in his own country, and engaged to sing at the
Opera-house. He played kings and prophets, heroes and demons, and he was
so good an actor that whenever he rehearsed a part, he instantly became
the part he impersonated.

One day he was strolling along the street. He was playing some sort of
a demon, but he was also Mr. Jubal. Suddenly he heard a voice calling
after him, "Peal!" He did not turn round, for no Englishman would do
such a thing, and, moreover, his name was no longer Peal.

But the voice called again, "Peal!" and his friend, the commercial
traveller, stood before him, looking at him searchingly, and yet with an
expression of shy kindliness.

"Dear old Peal, it _is_ you!" he said.

Mr. Jubal felt that a demon was taking possession of him; he opened his
mouth so wide that he showed all his teeth, and bellowed a curt "No!"

Then his friend felt quite convinced that it was he and went away. He
was an enlightened man, who knew men, the world and himself inside out,
and therefore he was neither sorry nor astonished.

But Mr. Jubal thought he was; he heard a voice within him saying,
"Before the cock crow thou shalt deny me thrice," and he did what St.
Peter had done, he went away and wept bitterly. That is to say, he wept
in imagination, but the demon in his heart laughed.

Henceforth he was always laughing; he laughed at good and evil, sorrow
and disgrace, at everything and everybody.

His father and mother knew, from the papers, who Mr. Jubal really
was, but they never went to the Opera-house, for they fancied it had
something to do with hoops and horses, and they objected to seeing their
son in such surroundings.

Mr. Jubal was now the greatest living singer; he had lost a lot of his
"I," but he still had his will.

Then his day came. There was a little ballet-dancer who could bewitch
men, and she bewitched Jubal. She bewitch