Ham, who was just entering, stood on the kitchen threshold in time to hear a man, whom he had never seen before, talking casually of the world beyond the seas.  Perhaps this man knew, too, the cities that brought conquerors as well as prophets into their own; perhaps to him the sepia-tinted monuments of Rome and the great tomb in the Place des Invalides were familiar spots!  And the man was young himself—­almost a boy.  For an instant, Ham stood there while his eyes traveled around the room, contemptuously taking in the cheap lithographs and offensive ornaments which he knew so well and hated so sincerely.  He straightened resolutely, and his hands clenched.  There would be a time when the earth’s greatest artists should contribute paintings for his walls, and palaces give up to him their bronzes and tapestries.

When a half-hour later Ham Burton was alone with the stranger he found himself asking and answering many questions.  He had not meant to impart his secret of discontent, but just as Mary had confided her troubles at the roadside, so Ham told his as he sat on the edge of the bed in the chilly attic-room of the farm-house.  Perhaps it was because this man had actually seen the things that existed beyond the sky-line, and had walked through the veil of mystery which the boy himself so burned to penetrate.  At all events it transpired.  Ham had shown his little store of greedily conned books and had bared to the gaze of the other his naked and scorching torture of ambition.  The lad knew something of the men who had made themselves masters of the world and wished to know more.  Edwardes had not even laughed when Ham declared with naive conviction:  “None of them men ever did anything I couldn’t do, if I got the chance.”  It was impossible to laugh, though listening to such boundless egotism, in the face of so deep a sincerity and such an implicit self-belief as shone from those young eyes.

“Sometimes the great man knows his greatness in advance,” said the visitor gravely.  “Sometimes it surprises himself.  But most of the mightiest made their own chance.”

“I know that.  I’m going to make mine.  Power is what I want an’ it’s what I’m goin’ to have.  But I’ve got to get away from here.  Julius Caesar couldn’t do nothin’ here.”

When Jefferson Edwardes came down stairs Mary, who had slipped timidly away, edged into the room, bashful and adorned.  She had put on her best dress, and her lustrous hair was braided and coiled on her head, after the instruction of one of her fashion plates.  As the visitor saw her he once more checked his inclination to laugh, for the marvelous mismated eyes were fixed on his face and they held an almost passionate anxiety to be approved by the man who had prophesied her beauty.  The thin child with her hair so inappropriately dressed in the style of her fashionable elders—­or what she fondly believed to be their style—­would have been a ludicrous little figure had she not been, in her eagerness, too serious for humor.  The one detail in which she thought she could follow the dictates of Fashion’s decree was this arrangement of her hair, and that she had attempted.  Now she stood first on one foot then on the other, watching in suspense to see if she had succeeded.