He had won four hundred pounds within the last week, and this and his share in a play which was doing fairly well in the provinces, had run up his balance at the bank higher than it had ever stood—­to nearly a thousand pounds.

As he considered his good fortune, a sudden desire of change of scene suddenly sprang upon him, and in full revulsion of feeling his mind turned from the long hours in the yellow glare of lamp-light, the staring faces, the heaps of gold and notes, and the cards flying silently around the empty space of green baize; from the long hours spent correcting and manipulating sentences; from the heat and turmoil and dirt of London; from Frank Escott and his family; from stinking, steamy restaurants; from the high flights of stairs, and the prostitution of the Temple.  And like butterflies above two flowers, his thoughts hovered in uncertain desire between the sanctity of a honeymoon with Lily Young in a fair enchanted pavilion on a terrace by the sea, near, but not too near, white villas, in a place as fairylike as a town etched by Whistler, and some months of pensive and abstracted life, full to overflowing with the joy and eagerness of incessant cerebration; a summer spent in a quiet country-side, full of field-paths, and hedge-rows, and shadowy woodland lanes—­rich with red gables, surprises of woodbine and great sunflowers—­where he would walk meditatively in the sunsetting, seeing the village lads and lassies pass, interested in their homely life, so resting his brain after the day’s labour; then in his study he would find the candles already lighted, the kettle singing, his books and his manuscripts ready for three excellent hours; upon his face the night would breathe the rustling of leaves and the rich odour of the stocks and tall lilies, until he closed the window at midnight, casting one long sad and regretful look upon the gold mysteries of the heavens.

So his reverie ran, interrupted by the conversation in the next room.  He heard his name mentioned frequently.  The situation was embarrassing, for he could not open a door without being heard.  At last he tramped boldly out, slamming the doors after him, leaving a note for Frank on the table in the passage.  It ran as follows—­“I am leaving town in a few days.  I shall remove my things probably on Monday.  Much obliged to you for your hospitality; and now, good-bye.”  “That will look,” he thought, “as if I had not overheard his remarks.  How glad I shall be to get away!  Oh, for new scenes, new faces!  ’How pleasant it is to have money!—­heigh-ho!—­how pleasant it is to have money!’ Whither shall I go?  Whither?  To Italy, and write my poem?  To Paris or Norway?  I feel as if I should never care to see this filthy Temple again.”  Even the old dining-hall, with its flights of steps and balustrades, seemed to have lost all accent of romance; but he stayed to watch the long flight of the pigeons as they came on straightened wings from the gables.  “What familiar birds they are!