premiums were
not overdue); culled quaintness from street rows; extracted merriment
from catastrophes the most painful, and prospered.

Though often within a stone's throw of the street, I unremittingly
avoided the old house at Poplar. I was suffering inconvenience at this
period by reason of finding myself two distinct individuals, contending
with each other. My object was to encourage the new Paul--the sensible,
practical, pushful Paul, whose career began to look promising; to
drive away from interfering with me his strangely unlike twin--the old
childish Paul of the sad, far-seeing eyes. Sometimes out of the cracked
looking-glass his wistful, yearning face would plead to me; but I would
sternly shake my head. I knew well his cunning. Had I let him have his
way, he would have led me through the maze of streets he knew so well,
past the broken railings (outside which he would have left my body
standing), along the weedy pathway, through the cracked and dented door,
up the creaking staircase to the dismal little chamber where we once--he
and I together--had sat dreaming foolish dreams.

"Come," he would whisper; "it is so near. Let us push aside the chest
of drawers very quietly, softly raise the broken sash, prop it open with
the Latin dictionary, lean our elbows on the sill, listen to the voices
of the weary city, voices calling to us from the darkness."

But I was too wary to be caught. "Later on," I would reply to him; "when
I have made my way, when I am stronger to withstand your wheedling. Then
I will go with you, if you are still in existence, my sentimental little
friend. We will dream again the old impractical, foolish dreams--and
laugh at them."

So he would fade away, and in his place would nod to me approvingly a
businesslike-looking, wide-awake young fellow.

But to one sentimental temptation I succumbed. My position was by
now assured; there was no longer any reason for my hiding myself. I
determined to move westward. I had not intended to soar so high, but
passing through Guildford Street one day, the creeper-covered corner
house that my father had once thought of taking recalled itself to me.
A card was in the fanlight. I knocked and made enquiries. A
bed-sitting-room upon the third floor was vacant. I remembered it well
the moment the loquacious landlady opened its door.

"This shall be your room, Paul," said my father. So clearly his voice
sounded behind me that I turned, forgetting for the momen