apable of--and this
satisfied him.

It was doubtful whether he loved Amy, in the true sense of exclusive
desire. She represented for him all that is lovely in womanhood; to his
starved soul and senses she was woman, the complement of his frustrate
being. Circumstance had made her the means of exciting in him that
natural force which had hitherto either been dormant or had yielded to
the resolute will.

Companionless, inert, he suffered the tortures which are so ludicrous
and contemptible to the happily married. Life was barren to him, and
would soon grow hateful; only in sleep could he cast off the unchanging
thoughts and desires which made all else meaningless. And rightly
meaningless: he revolted against the unnatural constraints forbidding
him to complete his manhood.

By what fatality was he alone of men withheld from the winning of a
woman's love?

He could not bear to walk the streets where the faces of beautiful women
would encounter him. When he must needs leave the house, he went about
in the poor, narrow ways, where only spectacles of coarseness, and
want, and toil would be presented to him. Yet even here he was too often
reminded that the poverty-stricken of the class to which poverty is
natural were not condemned to endure in solitude. Only he who belonged
to no class, who was rejected alike by his fellows in privation and by
his equals in intellect, must die without having known the touch of a
loving woman's hand.

The summer went by, and he was unconscious of its warmth and light. How
his days passed he could not have said.

One evening in early autumn, as he stood before the book-stall at the
end of Goodge Street, a familiar voice accosted him. It was Whelpdale's.
A month or two ago he had stubbornly refused an invitation to dine
with Whelpdale and other acquaintances--you remember what the occasion
was--and since then the prosperous young man had not crossed his path.

'I've something to tell you,' said the assailer, taking hold of his
arm. 'I'm in a tremendous state of mind, and want someone to share my
delight. You can walk a short way, I hope? Not too busy with some new
book?'

Biffen gave no answer, but went whither he was led.

'You are writing a new book, I suppose? Don't be discouraged, old
fellow. "Mr Bailey" will have his day yet; I know men who consider it an
undoubted work of genius. What's the next to deal with?'

'I haven't decided yet,' replied Harold, merely to avoid argument.