With the beginning of his second winter came a new anxiety, a new source of bitter and degrading reflections.  At not more than five minutes’ walk away, another grocer started business; happily no great capitalist, but to all appearances a man of enterprise who knew what he was about.  Morning and evening, Warburton passed the new shop and felt his very soul turn sour in the thought that he must do what in him lay to prevent that man from gaining custom; if he could make his business a failure, destroy all his hopes, so much the better.  With Allchin, he held long and eager conferences.  The robust assistant was of course troubled by no scruples; he warmed to the combat, chuckled over each good idea for the enemy’s defeat; every nerve must be strained for the great Christmas engagement; as much money as possible must be spent in making a brave show.  And it was only by pausing every now and then to remember why he stood here, in what cause he was so debasing the manner of his life, that Warburton could find strength to go through such a trial of body and of spirit.  When, the Christmas fight well over, with manifest triumph on his side he went down for a couple of days to St. Neots, once more he had his reward.  But the struggle was telling upon his health; it showed in his face, in his bearing.  Mother and sister spoke uneasily of a change they noticed; surely he was working too hard; what did he mean by taking no summer holiday?  Will laughed.

“Business, business!  A good deal to do at first, you know.  Things’ll be smoother next year.”

And the comfort, the quiet, the simple contentment of that little house by the Ouse, sent him back to Fulham Road, once more resigned, courageous.

Naturally, he sometimes contrasted his own sordid existence with the unforeseen success which had made such changes in the life of Norbert Franks.  It was more than three months since he and Franks had met, when, one day early in January, he received a note from the artist.  “What has become of you?  I haven’t had a chance of getting your way—­work and social foolery.  Could you come and lunch with me here, on Sunday, alone, like the old days?  I have a portrait to show you.”  So on Sunday, Warburton went to his friend’s new studio, which was in the Holland Park region.  Formerly it was always he who played the host, and he did not like this change of positions; but Franks, however sensible of his good luck, and inclined at times to take himself rather seriously, had no touch of the snob in his temper; when with him, Will generally lost sight of unpleasant things in good-natured amusement.  To-day, however, grocerdom lay heavily on his soul.  On the return journey from St. Neots he had caught a cold, and a week of sore throat behind the counter—­a week too, of quarrel with a wholesale house which had been cheating him—­left his nerves in a bad state.  For reply to the artist’s cordial greeting he could only growl inarticulately.