happened that he was constrained to act in what seemed
rather a feeble and undignified way. But, after all, it was temporary;
the day of his emancipation from paltry necessities would surely come,
and all the great qualities latent in him would have ample scope.

Plainly, he must do something. He could live for the next few months,
but, after that, had no resources to count upon. Such hopes as he had
tried to connect with the name of Lady Ogram might be the veriest
dream, but for the moment no suggestion offered in any other quarter.
It would be better, perhaps, to write to Connie Bride before going down
to Hollingford. Yes, he would write to Connie.

Having breakfasted, he stood idly at the window of his sitting-room.
His lodgings were in Upper Woburn Place, nearly opposite the church of
St. Pancras. He had read, he knew not where, that the crowning portion
of that remarkable edifice was modelled on the Temple of the Winds at
Athens, and, as he gazed at it this morning, he suffered from the
thought of his narrow experience in travel. A glimpse of the
Netherlands, of France, of Switzerland, was all he could boast. His
income had only just covered his expenditure; the holiday season always
found him more or less embarrassed, and unable to go far afield. What
Can one do on a paltry three hundred a year? Yet he regretted that he
had not used a stricter economy. He might have managed in cheaper
rooms; he might have done without this and the other little luxury. To
have travelled widely would now be of some use to him; it gave a man a
certain freedom in society, added an octave to the compass of his
discourse. Acquaintance with books did not serve the same end; and,
though he read a good deal, Dyce was tolerably aware that not by force
of erudition could he look for advancement. He began to perceive it as
a misfortune that he had not earlier in life become clear as to the
nature of his ambition. Until a couple of years ago he had scarcely
been conscious of any aim at all, for the literary impulses which used
to inspire his talk with Connie Bride were merely such as stir in every
youth of our time; they had never got beyond talk, and, on fading away,
left him without intellectual motive. Now that he knew whither his
desires and his abilities tended, he was harassed by consciousness of
imperfect equipment. Even academically he had not distinguished
himself; he had made no attempt at journalism; he had not brought
himself into