the various strands that worked out the pattern.  There was one pattern, the most obvious, perfect, and beautiful, in which a man was born, grew to manhood, married, produced children, toiled for his bread, and died; but there were others, intricate and wonderful, in which happiness did not enter and in which success was not attempted; and in them might be discovered a more troubling grace.  Some lives, and Hayward’s was among them, the blind indifference of chance cut off while the design was still imperfect; and then the solace was comfortable that it did not matter; other lives, such as Cronshaw’s, offered a pattern which was difficult to follow, the point of view had to be shifted and old standards had to be altered before one could understand that such a life was its own justification.  Philip thought that in throwing over the desire for happiness he was casting aside the last of his illusions.  His life had seemed horrible when it was measured by its happiness, but now he seemed to gather strength as he realised that it might be measured by something else.  Happiness mattered as little as pain.  They came in, both of them, as all the other details of his life came in, to the elaboration of the design.  He seemed for an instant to stand above the accidents of his existence, and he felt that they could not affect him again as they had done before.  Whatever happened to him now would be one more motive to add to the complexity of the pattern, and when the end approached he would rejoice in its completion.  It would be a work of art, and it would be none the less beautiful because he alone knew of its existence, and with his death it would at once cease to be.

Philip was happy.

CVII

Mr. Sampson, the buyer, took a fancy to Philip.  Mr. Sampson was very dashing, and the girls in his department said they would not be surprised if he married one of the rich customers.  He lived out of town and often impressed the assistants by putting on his evening clothes in the office.  Sometimes he would be seen by those on sweeping duty coming in next morning still dressed, and they would wink gravely to one another while he went into his office and changed into a frock coat.  On these occasions, having slipped out for a hurried breakfast, he also would wink at Philip as he walked up the stairs on his way back and rub his hands.

“What a night!  What a night!” he said.  “My word!”

He told Philip that he was the only gentleman there, and he and Philip were the only fellows who knew what life was.  Having said this, he changed his manner suddenly, called Philip Mr. Carey instead of old boy, assumed the importance due to his position as buyer, and put Philip back into his place of shop-walker.