“There; I think that will draw sparks,” said Mr. Bellingham, as he folded the last of his letters and put them all in a great square envelope.  “Put those in your pocket and keep your powder dry.”

“I am really very grateful to you,” said Claudius.  Uncle Horace began to tramp round the room again, emitting smoky ejaculations of satisfaction.  Presently he stopped in front of his guest and turned his eyes up to Claudius’s face without raising his head.  It gave him a peculiar expression.

“It is a very strange thing,” he said, “but I knew at once that you had a destiny, the first time I saw you.  I am very superstitious; I believe in destiny.”

“So would I if I thought one could know anything about it.  I mean in a general way,” answered Claudius, smiling.

“Is generalisation everything?” asked Mr. Bellingham sharply, still looking at the young man.  “Is experience to be dismissed as empiricism, with a sneer, because the wider rule is lacking?”

“No.  But so long as only a few occupy themselves in reducing empiric knowledge to a scientific shape they will not succeed, at least in this department.  To begin with, they have not enough experience among them to make rules from.”

“But they contribute.  One man will come who will find the rule.  Was Tycho Brahe a nonentity because he was not Kepler?  Was Van Helmont nothing because he was not Lavoisier?  Yet Tycho Brahe was an empiric—­he was the last of the observers of the concrete, if you will allow me the phrase.  He was scientifically the father of Kepler.”

“That is very well put,” said Claudius.  “But we were talking of destiny.  You are an observer.”

“I have very fine senses,” replied Mr. Bellingham.  “I always know when anybody I meet is going to do something out of the common run.  You are.”

“I hope so,” said Claudius, laughing.  “Indeed I think I am beginning already.”

“Well, good luck to you,” said Mr. Bellingham, remembering that he had missed one engagement, and was on the point of missing another.  He suddenly felt that he must send Claudius away, and he held out his hand.  There was nothing rough in his abruptness.  He would have liked to talk with Claudius for an hour longer had his time permitted.  Claudius understood perfectly.  He put the letters in his pocket, and with a parting shake of the hand he bade Mr. Horace Bellingham good-morning, and good-bye; he would not trouble him again, he said, before sailing.  But Mr. Bellingham went to the door with him.

“Come and see me before you go—­Wednesday morning; I am up at six, you know.  I shall be very glad to see you.  I am like the Mexican donkey that died of congojas ajenas—­died of other people’s troubles.  People always come to me when they are in difficulties.”  The old gentleman stood looking after Claudius as he strode away.  Then he screwed up his eyes at the sun, sneezed with evident satisfaction, and disappeared within, closing the street door behind him.