Since then he had mastered his Gibbon, knew him from end to end, and joyed in him more than ever.  Whenever he had a chance of obtaining any of the writers, ancient or modern, to whom Gibbon refers, he read them and added to his knowledge.  About a year ago, he had picked up an old Claudian, and the reading of the poet had settled him to a task which he had before that doubtfully sought.  He wanted to write either a poem or a drama on some subject taken from the “Decline and Fall,” and now, with Claudian’s help, he fixed upon Stilicho for his hero.  The form, he then decided, should be dramatic.  Upon “Stilicho” he had now been engaged for a year, and to-night he is writing the last words of the last scene.  Shortly after twelve he has finished it, and, throwing down his pen, he paces about the room with enviable feelings.

He had not as yet mentioned to Waymark the work he was engaged upon, though he had confessed that he wrote verses at times.  He wished to complete it, and then read it to his friend.  It was now only the middle of the week, and though he had decided previously to wait till his visit to Walcot Square next Sunday before saying a word about “Stilicho,” he could not refrain now from hastily penning a note to Waymark, and going out to post it at once.

When the day came, the weather would not allow the usual walk with Harriet, and Julian could not help feeling glad that it was so.  He was too pre-occupied to talk in the usual way with the girl, and he knew how vain it would be to try and make her understand his state of mind.  Still, he went to see her as usual, and sat for an hour in Mrs. Ogle’s parlour.  At times, throughout the week, he had thought of the curious resemblance between Harriet and the girl he had noticed on leaving Waymark’s house last Sunday, and now he asked her, in a half-jesting way, whether it had really been she.

“How could it be?” said Harriet carelessly.  “I can’t be in two places at once.”

“Did you stay at home that evening?”

“No,—­not all the evening.”

“What friends are they you go to, when you are out at night, Harriet?”

“Oh, some relations of the Colchester people.—­I suppose you’ve been spending most of your time in Kennington since Sunday?”

“I haven’t left home.  In fact, I’ve been very busy.  I’ve just finished some work that has occupied me for nearly a year.”

After all, he could not refrain from speaking of it, though he had made up his mind not to do so.

“Work?  What work?” asked Harriet, with the suspicious look which came into her grey eyes whenever she heard something she could not understand.

“Some writing.  I’ve written a play.”

“A play?  Will it be acted?”

“Oh no, it isn’t meant for acting.”

“What’s the good of it then?”

“It’s written in verse.  I shall perhaps try to get it published.”

“Shall you get money for it?”