ously and unhesitatingly predict a six months'
run. But new to the business, I regarded my literary career as already
at an end. Belief in oneself is merely the match with which one lights
oneself. The oil is supplied by the belief in one of others; if that
be not forthcoming, one goes out. Later on I might try to light myself
again, but for the present I felt myself dark and dismal. My desire was
to get away from my own smoke and smell. The final dress rehearsal
over, I took my leave of all concerned. The next morning I would pack
a knapsack and start upon a walking tour through Holland. The English
papers would not reach me. No human being should know my address. In a
month or so I would return, the piece would have disappeared--would be
forgotten. With courage, I might be able to forget it myself.

"I shall run it for three weeks," said Hodgson, "then we'll withdraw it
quietly, 'owing to previous arrangements'; or Duncan can suddenly fall
ill--she's done it often enough to suit herself; she can do it this
once to suit me. Don't be upset. There's nothing to be ashamed of in the
piece; indeed, there is a good deal that will be praised. The idea is
distinctly original. As a matter of fact, that's the fault with it,"
added Hodgson, "it's too original."

"You said you wanted it original," I reminded him.

He laughed. "Yes, but original for the stage, I meant--the old dolls in
new frocks."

I thanked him for all his kindness, and went home and packed my
knapsack.

For two months I wandered, avoiding beaten tracks, my only comrades a
few books, belonging to no age, no country. My worries fell from me, the
personal affairs of Paul Kelver ceasing to appear the be all and the
end all of the universe. But for a chance meeting with Wellbourne,
Deleglise's amateur caretaker of Gower Street fame, I should have
delayed yet longer my return. It was in one of the dead cities of the
Zuyder Zee. I was sitting under the lindens on the grass-grown quay,
awaiting a slow, crawling boat that, four miles off, I watched a moving
speck across the level pastures. I heard his footsteps in the empty
market-place behind me, and turned my head. I did not rise, felt even no
astonishment; anything might come to pass in that still land of dreams.
He seated himself beside me with a nod, and for awhile we smoked in
silence.

"All well with you?" I asked.

"I am afraid not," he answered; "the poor fellow is in great trouble."

"I'm not Wellbour