talents like his and fewer still could remain unspoiled
by such success. Gallaher's heart was in the right place and he had
deserved to win. It was something to have a friend like that.

Little Chandler's thoughts ever since lunch-time had been of his meeting
with Gallaher, of Gallaher's invitation and of the great city London
where Gallaher lived. He was called Little Chandler because, though
he was but slightly under the average stature, he gave one the idea
of being a little man. His hands were white and small, his frame was
fragile, his voice was quiet and his manners were refined. He took the
greatest care of his fair silken hair and moustache and used perfume
discreetly on his handkerchief. The half-moons of his nails were perfect
and when he smiled you caught a glimpse of a row of childish white
teeth.

As he sat at his desk in the King's Inns he thought what changes those
eight years had brought. The friend whom he had known under a shabby and
necessitous guise had become a brilliant figure on the London Press. He
turned often from his tiresome writing to gaze out of the office window.
The glow of a late autumn sunset covered the grass plots and walks. It
cast a shower of kindly golden dust on the untidy nurses and decrepit
old men who drowsed on the benches; it flickered upon all the moving
figures--on the children who ran screaming along the gravel paths and
on everyone who passed through the gardens. He watched the scene and
thought of life; and (as always happened when he thought of life) he
became sad. A gentle melancholy took possession of him. He felt how
useless it was to struggle against fortune, this being the burden of
wisdom which the ages had bequeathed to him.

He remembered the books of poetry upon his shelves at home. He had
bought them in his bachelor days and many an evening, as he sat in the
little room off the hall, he had been tempted to take one down from the
bookshelf and read out something to his wife. But shyness had always
held him back; and so the books had remained on their shelves. At times
he repeated lines to himself and this consoled him.

When his hour had struck he stood up and took leave of his desk and of
his fellow-clerks punctiliously. He emerged from under the feudal
arch of the King's Inns, a neat modest figure, and walked swiftly down
Henrietta Street. The golden sunset was waning and the air had grown
sharp. A horde of grimy children populated the street. They stood