r eyes of the man
were turned on him, rather than on Nina. They looked through him, as if
they saw with a lucidity even more unendurable than his, what was going
on in Tanqueray's soul.

He said something inaudible to Nina and went out of the room with a
light, energetic stride.

"How can you stand his eyes?" said Tanqueray; "it's like being exposed
to the everlasting stare of God."

"It is, rather."

"What's his name again?"

"Owen Prothero."

"What do you know about him."

She told him what she knew. Prothero was, as Tanqueray saw, an unlicked
Celt. He had been, if Tanqueray would believe it, in the Indian Medical
Service, and had flung it up before he got his pension. He had been to
British Central Africa on a commission for investigating sleeping
sickness; he spoke of it casually as if it were the sort of thing you
naturally were on. He had volunteered as a surgeon in the Boer War. And
with it all he was what Tanqueray saw.

"And his address?" Tanqueray inquired.

"He lives here."

"Why shouldn't he?" He answered her challenging eyes. They shot light at
him.

"He is a great poet? I _was_ right?"

"Absolutely. He's great enough for anybody. How on earth did you get
hold of him?"

She was silent. She seemed to be listening for the sound of Prothero's
feet on the stair.

He was soon with them, bringing his sheaf of manuscript. He had brought
all he had got. The chanting began again and continued till the light
failed.

And as Tanqueray listened the restless, irritable devilry passed from
his face. Salient, thrust forward toward Prothero, it was the face of a
winged creature in adoration, caught suddenly into heaven, breasting the
flood of the supernal light. For Tanqueray could be cruel in his
contempt for all clevernesses and littlenesses, for all achievements
that had the literary taint; but he was on his knees in a moment before
the incorruptible divinities. He had the immortal's scent for
immortality.

When the chanting ceased they talked.

Tanqueray warned Prothero of the horrors of premature renown. Prothero
declared that he had none. Nobody knew his name.

"Good," said Tanqueray. "Celebrity's all very well at the end, when
you've done the things you want to do. It's a bad beginning. It doesn't
matter quite so much if you live in the country where nobody's likely to
know you're celebrated till you're dead. But if you _will_ live in
London, your only chance is to remain obscure."

"The