his own son, and now and again he slipped sly
furtive glances towards the tranquil young man in the arm-chair by the
empty hearth. In the first place, Mr. Taylor was genuinely impressed by
what he had read of Lucian's work; he had so long been accustomed to look
upon all effort as futile that success amazed him. In the abstract, of
course, he was prepared to admit that some people did write well and got
published and made money, just as other persons successfully backed an
outsider at heavy odds; but it had seemed as improbable that Lucian
should show even the beginnings of achievement in one direction as in the
other. Then the boy evidently cared so little about it; he did not appear
to be proud of being worth robbing, nor was he angry with the robbers.

He sat back luxuriously in the disreputable old chair, drawing long slow
wreaths of smoke, tasting his whisky from time to time, evidently well at
ease with himself. The father saw him smile, and it suddenly dawned upon
him that his son was very handsome; he had such kind gentle eyes and a
kind mouth, and his pale cheeks were flushed like a girl's. Mr. Taylor
felt moved. What a harmless young fellow Lucian had been; no doubt a
little queer and different from others, but wholly inoffensive and
patient under disappointment. And Miss Deacon, her contribution to the
evening's discussion had been characteristic; she had remarked, firstly,
that writing was a very unsettling occupation, and secondly, that it was
extremely foolish to entrust one's property to people of whom one knew
nothing. Father and son had smiled together at these observations, which
were probably true enough. Mr. Taylor at last left Lucian along; he shook
hands with a good deal of respect, and said, almost deferentially:

"You mustn't work too hard, old fellow. I wouldn't stay up too late, if I
were you, after that long walk. You must have gone miles out of your
way."

"I'm not tired now, though. I feel as if I could write my new book on the
spot"; and the young man laughed a gay sweet laugh that struck the father
as a new note in his son's life.

He sat still a moment after his father had left the room. He cherished
his chief treasure of thought in its secret place; he would not enjoy it
yet. He drew up a chair to the table at which he wrote or tried to write,
and began taking pens and paper from the drawer. There was a great pile
of ruled paper there; all of it used, on one side, and signifying many