ave of blood went through them.

Progress! He loved to think of it. It was his passion. That grand old
Watts's picture, with its glow, its sacred glow of colour, in which was
genius! Each one must do his part.

And in that great hotel, how many were working consciously for the
cause?

Excitement woke in him. He thought of the rows and rows of numbered
doors in the huge building, and within, beyond each number, a mind to
think, a heart to feel, a soul to prompt, a body to act. And beyond his
number--himself! What was he doing? What was he going to do? He got up
and walked about his room, still smoking his cigar. His babouches
shuffled over the carpet. He kicked them off, and went on walking, with
bare, brown feet. Often in the Fayyum he had gone barefoot, like his
labourers. What was he going to do to help on the slow turning of the
mighty wheel of progress? He must not be a mere talker, a mere raver
about grand things, while accomplishing nothing to bring them about. He
despised those windy talkers who never act. He must not be one of them.
That night, when he sat down "to have it out" with himself, he had done
so for his own sake. He had been an egoist, had been thinking, perhaps
not solely but certainly chiefly, of himself. But in these lonely
moments men are generally essentially themselves. Nigel was not
essentially an egoist. And soon himself had been almost forgotten. He
had been thinking far more of Mrs. Chepstow than of himself. And now he
thought of her again in connection with this turning of the great wheel
of progress. At first he thought of her alone in this connection, then
of her and of himself.

It is difficult to do anything quite alone, anything wholly worth the
doing. That was what he was thinking. Nearly always some other intrudes,
blessedly intrudes, to give conscious, or unconscious, help. A man puts
his shoulder to the wheel, and in front of him he sees another shoulder.
And the sight gives him courage.

The thought of strenuous activity made him think of Mrs. Chepstow's
almost absolute inactivity. He saw her sitting, always sitting, in her
room, while life flowed on outside. He saw her pale face. That her face
was carefully made pale by art did not occur to him. And then again he
thought of Mrs. Browning and of the mountain peaks.

What was he going to do?

He made a strong mental effort, as he would have expressed it, to "get
himself in hand." Now, then, he must think it out. And he must