romance of the crowded stream below London Bridge.  In the afternoon he walked about the common; and that is gray and dingy too; it is neither country nor town; the gorse is stunted; and all about is the litter of civilisation.  He went to a play every Saturday night and stood cheerfully for an hour or more at the gallery-door.  It was not worth while to go back to Barnes for the interval between the closing of the Museum and his meal in an A. B. C. shop, and the time hung heavily on his hands.  He strolled up Bond Street or through the Burlington Arcade, and when he was tired went and sat down in the Park or in wet weather in the public library in St. Martin’s Lane.  He looked at the people walking about and envied them because they had friends; sometimes his envy turned to hatred because they were happy and he was miserable.  He had never imagined that it was possible to be so lonely in a great city.  Sometimes when he was standing at the gallery-door the man next to him would attempt a conversation; but Philip had the country boy’s suspicion of strangers and answered in such a way as to prevent any further acquaintance.  After the play was over, obliged to keep to himself all he thought about it, he hurried across the bridge to Waterloo.  When he got back to his rooms, in which for economy no fire had been lit, his heart sank.  It was horribly cheerless.  He began to loathe his lodgings and the long solitary evenings he spent in them.  Sometimes he felt so lonely that he could not read, and then he sat looking into the fire hour after hour in bitter wretchedness.

He had spent three months in London now, and except for that one Sunday at Hampstead had never talked to anyone but his fellow-clerks.  One evening Watson asked him to dinner at a restaurant and they went to a music-hall together; but he felt shy and uncomfortable.  Watson talked all the time of things he did not care about, and while he looked upon Watson as a Philistine he could not help admiring him.  He was angry because Watson obviously set no store on his culture, and with his way of taking himself at the estimate at which he saw others held him he began to despise the acquirements which till then had seemed to him not unimportant.  He felt for the first time the humiliation of poverty.  His uncle sent him fourteen pounds a month and he had had to buy a good many clothes.  His evening suit cost him five guineas.  He had not dared tell Watson that it was bought in the Strand.  Watson said there was only one tailor in London.

“I suppose you don’t dance,” said Watson, one day, with a glance at Philip’s club-foot.

“No,” said Philip.

“Pity.  I’ve been asked to bring some dancing men to a ball.  I could have introduced you to some jolly girls.”