s
changed both of us a little. But sometimes remember me, will you?
Perhaps you would write?"

"Why, of course," he answered, "I shall want to know how things turn
out. What will you do?"

"I don't know. We will go away from here, of course. Go back to
London, I expect--and I will get some work. There are lots of things
to do, and I shall be happy."

"I hope," he said, "that the real thing is just beginning for both of
us."

She stood by the window looking out into the street. "It makes things
different if you believe in me," she said. "It will give one courage.
I had begun to think that there was no one in the world who cared."

"Be plucky," he said. "Work's the only thing. It is because we've
both been idle here that we're worried. Don't think any more of Robin.
He isn't good enough for you yet; he'll learn, like the rest of us; but
he'll have to go through something first. You'll find a better man."

"Poor Robin," she said. "Be kind to him!"

He took her hand for a moment, smiled, and was gone. She watched him
from the window.

He looked back at her and smiled again. Then he passed the corner of
the street.

"So that's the end!" She turned back from the window. "Now for a
beginning!"

CHAPTER XI

Garrett Trojan had considered the matter for two days and had come to
no conclusion. His manner of considering anything was peculiar. He
loved procrastination and coloured future events with such beautiful
radiancy that, when they actually came, the shock of finding them only
drab was so terrible that he avoided them altogether. He was, however,
saved from any lasting pain and disappointment because he had been
given, from early childhood, that splendid gift of discovering himself
to be the continual hero of a continual play. It was not only that he
could make no move in life at all without being its hero--that, of
course, was pleasant enough; but that it was always a fresh discovery
was truly the amazing thing. He was able to wake up, as it were, and
discover afresh, every day of his life, what a hero he was; this was
never monotonous, never wearisome. He played the game anew from day to
day--and the best part of the game was not knowing that it was a game
at all.

It must be admitted that he only maintained the illusion by keeping
somewhat apart from his fellow-men--too frequent contact must have
destroyed his dreams. But his aloofness was termed preserving his
individuality,