own. London is
only a huge shop, with an hotel on the upper storeys. To be sure, if you
make it your artistic subject, that's a different thing. But neither you
nor I would do that by deliberate choice.'

'I think not.'

'It's a huge misfortune, this will-o'-the-wisp attraction exercised
by London on young men of brains. They come here to be degraded, or to
perish, when their true sphere is a life of peaceful remoteness. The
type of man capable of success in London is more or less callous and
cynical. If I had the training of boys, I would teach them to think of
London as the last place where life can be lived worthily.'

'And the place where you are most likely to die in squalid
wretchedness.'

'The one happy result of my experiences,' said Reardon, is that they
have cured me of ambition. What a miserable fellow I should be if I were
still possessed with the desire to make a name! I can't even recall
very clearly that state of mind. My strongest desire now is for peaceful
obscurity. I am tired out; I want to rest for the remainder of my life.'

'You won't have much rest at Croydon.'

'Oh, it isn't impossible. My time will be wholly occupied in a round of
all but mechanical duties, and I think that will be the best medicine
for my mind. I shall read very little, and that only in the classics.
I don't say that I shall always be content in such a position; in a few
years perhaps something pleasanter will offer. But in the meantime
it will do very well. Then there is our expedition to Greece to look
forward to. I am quite in earnest about that. The year after next, if we
are both alive, assuredly we go.'

'The year after next.' Biffen smiled dubiously.

'I have demonstrated to you mathematically that it is possible.'

'You have; but so are a great many other things that one does not dare
to hope for.'

Someone knocked at the door, opened it, and said:

'Here's a telegram for you, Mr Reardon.'

The friends looked at each other, as if some fear had entered the minds
of both. Reardon opened the despatch. It was from his wife, and ran
thus:

'Willie is ill of diphtheria. Please come to us at once. I am staying
with Mrs Carter, at her mother's, at Brighton.'

The full address was given.

'You hadn't heard of her going there?' said Biffen, when he had read the
lines.

'No. I haven't seen Carter for several days, or perhaps he would
have told me. Brighton, at this time of year? But I believe there's
a fashio