f fifty ways, and that took it into its head not to
do it at all. So here I am, a poor devil of an artist.'

Clennam was beginning, 'But on the other hand--' when Gowan took him up.

'Yes, yes, I know. I have the good fortune of being beloved by a
beautiful and charming girl whom I love with all my heart.' ('Is there
much of it?' Clennam thought. And as he thought it, felt ashamed of
himself.)

'And of finding a father-in-law who is a capital fellow and a liberal
good old boy. Still, I had other prospects washed and combed into my
childish head when it was washed and combed for me, and I took them to
a public school when I washed and combed it for myself, and I am here
without them, and thus I am a disappointed man.'

Clennam thought (and as he thought it, again felt ashamed of himself),
was this notion of being disappointed in life, an assertion of station
which the bridegroom brought into the family as his property, having
already carried it detrimentally into his pursuit? And was it a hopeful
or a promising thing anywhere?

'Not bitterly disappointed, I think,' he said aloud. 'Hang it, no; not
bitterly,' laughed Gowan. 'My people are not worth that--though they are
charming fellows, and I have the greatest affection for them. Besides,
it's pleasant to show them that I can do without them, and that they may
all go to the Devil. And besides, again, most men are disappointed in
life, somehow or other, and influenced by their disappointment. But it's
a dear good world, and I love it!'

'It lies fair before you now,' said Arthur.

'Fair as this summer river,' cried the other, with enthusiasm, 'and by
Jove I glow with admiration of it, and with ardour to run a race in it.
It's the best of old worlds! And my calling! The best of old callings,
isn't it?'

'Full of interest and ambition, I conceive,' said Clennam.

'And imposition,' added Gowan, laughing; 'we won't leave out the
imposition. I hope I may not break down in that; but there, my being
a disappointed man may show itself. I may not be able to face it out
gravely enough. Between you and me, I think there is some danger of my
being just enough soured not to be able to do that.'

'To do what?' asked Clennam.

'To keep it up. To help myself in my turn, as the man before me helps
himself in his, and pass the bottle of smoke. To keep up the pretence
as to labour, and study, and patience, and being devoted to my art, and
giving up many solitary days to it, and