ing away from Chelsea were many men,
some, like Gregory, hungry for love, and some hungry for bread--men in
twos and threes, in crowds, or by themselves, some with their eyes on the
ground, some with their eyes level, some with their eyes on the sky, but
all with courage and loyalty of one poor kind or another in their hearts.
For by courage and loyalty alone it is written that man shall live,
whether he goes to Chelsea or whether he comes away. Of all these men,
not one but would have smiled to hear Gregory saying to himself: "She
will always be the same to me! She will always be the same to me!" And
not one that would have grinned....

It was getting on for the Stoics' dinner hour when Gregory found himself
in Piccadilly, and, Stoic after Stoic, they were getting out of cabs and
passing the club doors. The poor fellows had been working hard all day
on the racecourse, the cricket-ground, at Hurlingham, or in the Park;
some had been to the Royal Academy, and on their faces was a pleasant
look: "Ah, God is good--we can rest at last!" And many of them had had
no lunch, hoping to keep their weights down, and many who had lunched had
not done themselves as well as might be hoped, and some had done
themselves too well; but in all their hearts the trust burned bright that
they might do themselves better at dinner, for their God was good, and
dwelt between the kitchen and the cellar of the Stoics' Club. And
all--for all had poetry in their souls--looked forward to those hours in
paradise when, with cigars between their lips, good wine below, they
might dream the daily dream that comes to all true Stoics for about
fifteen shillings or even less, all told.

From a little back slum, within two stones' throw of the god of the
Stoics' Club, there had come out two seamstresses to take the air; one
was in consumption, having neglected to earn enough to feed herself
properly for some years past, and the other looked as if she would be in
consumption shortly, for the same reason. They stood on the pavement,
watching the cabs drive up. Some of the Stoics saw them and thought:
'Poor girls! they look awfully bad.' Three or four said to themselves:
"It oughtn't to be allowed. I mean, it's so painful to see; and it's not
as if one could do anything. They're not beggars, don't you know, and so
what can one do?"

But most of the Stoics did not look at them at all, feeling that their
soft hearts could not stand these painful sight