He shuddered as he passed the shop-windows for fear he should see
his own reflection. He made his way unfalteringly to an outfitter's
shop, and from there, with a bundle under his arm, to the baths. It was
a very different Alfred Burton indeed who, an hour or two later, issued
forth into the streets. Gone was the Cockney young man with the sandy
moustache, the cheap silk hat worn at various angles to give himself a
rakish air, the flashy clothes, cheap and pretentious, the assured, not
to say bumptious air so sedulously copied from the deportment of his
employer. Enter a new and completely transformed Alfred Burton, an
inoffensive-looking young man in a neat gray suit, a lilac-colored tie
of delicate shade, a flannel shirt with no pretence at cuffs, but with a
spotless turned down collar, a soft Homburg hat, a clean-shaven lip.
With a new sense of self-respect and an immense feeling of relief,
Burton, after a few moments' hesitation, directed his footsteps towards
the National Gallery. He had once been there years ago on a wet Bank
Holiday, and some faint instinct of memory which somehow or other had
survived the burden of his sordid days suddenly reasserted itself. He
climbed the steps and passed through the portals with the beating heart
of the explorer who climbs his last hill. It was his entrance, this,
into the new world whose call was tearing at his heartstrings. He
bought no catalogue, he asked no questions. From room to room he passed
with untiring footsteps. His whole being was filled with the
immeasurable relief, the almost passionate joy, of one who for the first
time is able to gratify a new and marvelous appetite. With his eyes,
his soul, all these late-born, strange, appreciative powers, he
ministered to an appetite which seemed unquenchable. It was dusk when
he came out, his cheeks burning, his eyes bright. He carried a new
music, a whole world of new joys with him, but his most vital sensation
was one of glowing and passionate sympathy. They were splendid, these
heroes who had seen the truth and had struggled to give life to it with
pencil or brush or chisel, that others, too, might see and understand.
If only one could do one's little share!

He walked slowly along, absorbed in his thoughts, unconscious even of
the direction in which his footsteps were taking him. When at last he
paused, he was outside a theatre. The name of Ibsen occupied a
prominent place upon the boards. From somewhere among the hidd