any one
might stand and look at, should be called literature. And yet some
times, in his more thoughtful moments, he dimly understood. He
remembered that between him and the multitudes of his fellow-creatures
there was a difference. Everything he saw, he saw through the clear
white light. There were no mists to cloud his vision, there was no halo
of idealism hovering around the objects upon which his eyes rested. It
was the truth he saw, and nothing beyond it. He compared his own work
with work of a similar character written by well-known men, and his
understanding became more complete. He found in their work a touch of
personality, a shade of self-consciousness about the description of even
the most ordinary things. The individuality of the writer and his
subject were always blended. In his own work, subject alone counted.
He had never learned any of the tricks of writing. His prose consisted
of the simple use of simple words. His mind was empty of all
inheritance of acquired knowledge. He had no preconceived ideals,
towards the realizations of which he should bend the things he saw. He
was simply a prophet of absolute truth. If he had found in those days a
literary godfather, he would, without doubt, have been presented to the
world as a genius.

Then, with money in his pocket, clad once more in decent apparel, he
made one more effort to do his duty. He sent for Ellen and little
Alfred to come up and see him. He sent them a little extra money, and
he wrote as kindly as possible. He wanted to do the right thing; he was
even anxious about it. He determined that he would do his very best to
bridge over that yawning gulf. The gingerbread villa he absolutely
could not face, so he met them at the Leicester Square Tube.

The moment they arrived, his heart sank. They stepped out of the lift
and looked around them. Ellen's hat seemed larger than ever, and was
ornate with violent-colored flowers. Her face was hidden behind a
violet veil, and she wore a white feather boa, fragments of which
reposed upon the lift man's shoulder and little Alfred's knickerbockers.
Her dress was of black velveteen, fitting a little tightly over her
corsets, and showing several imperfectly removed stains and creases.
She wore tan shoes, one of which was down at the heel, and
primrose-colored gloves. Alfred wore his usual black Sunday suit, a
lace collar around his neck about a foot wide, a straw hat on the ribbon
of which was printed the name of