greatly soothed him.  He spoke of Byron like some contemporary who, whilst admitting his lordship’s genius, felt an abhorrence of his life.  He judged literature solely from the moral point of view, and was incapable of understanding any other.  Of fiction he had read very little indeed, for it was not regarded with favour by his parents.  Scott was hardly more than a name to him.  And though he avowed acquaintance with one or two works of Dickens, he spoke of them with an uneasy smile, as if in some doubt as to their tendency.  With these intellectual characteristics, Mr. Spicer naturally found it difficult to appreciate the attitude of his literary friend, a young man whose brain thrilled in response to modern ideas, and who regarded himself as the destined leader of a new school of fiction.  Not indiscreet, Goldthorpe soon became aware that he had better talk as little as possible of the work which absorbed his energies.  He had enough liberality and sense of humour to understand and enjoy his landlord’s conversation, and the simple goodness of the man inspired him with no little respect.  Thus they got along together remarkably well.  Mr. Spicer never ceased to feel himself honoured by the presence under his roof of one who—­as he was wont to say—­wielded the pen.  The tradition of Grub Street was for him a living fact.  He thought of all authors as struggling with poverty, and continued to cite eighteenth-century examples by way of encouraging Goldthorpe and animating his zeal.  Whilst the young man was at work Mr. Spicer moved about the house with soundless footsteps.  When invited into his tenant’s room he had a reverential demeanour, and the sight of manuscript on the bare deal table caused him to subdue his voice.

The weeks went by, and Goldthorpe’s novel steadily progressed.  In London he had only two or three acquaintances, and from them he held aloof, lest necessity or temptation should lead to his spending money which he could not spare.  The few letters which he received were addressed to a post-office—­impossible to shock the nerves of a postman by requesting him to deliver correspondence at this dead house, of which the front door had not been opened for years.  The weather was perfect; a great deal of sunshine, but as yet no oppressive heat, even in the chambers under the roof.  Towards the end of June Mr. Spicer began to amuse himself with a little gardening.  He had discovered in the coal-hole an ancient fork, with one prong broken and the others rusting away.  This implement served him in his slow, meditative attack on that part of the jungle which seemed to offer least resistance.  He would work for a quarter of an hour, then, resting on his fork, contemplate the tangled mass of vegetation which he had succeeded in tearing up.

‘Our aim should be,’ he said gravely, when Goldthorpe came to observe his progress, ’to clear the soil round about those vegetables and flowers which seem worth preserving.  These broad-beans, for instance—­they seem to be a very fine sort.  And the Jerusalem artichokes.  I’ve been making inquiry about the artichokes, and I’m told they are not ready to eat till the autumn.  The first frost is said to improve them.  They’re fine plants—­very fine plants.’