as when he stood before the print shop in the Haymarket; now that he had lost Irene, the whole world of beautiful women called again to his senses and his soul.  With the cooler moment came a reminder that these lovely faces were for the most part mere masks, tricking out a very ordinary woman, more likely than not unintelligent, unhelpful, as the ordinary human being of either sex is wont to be.  What seemed to him the crown of a man’s career, was, in most cases, a mere incident, deriving its chief importance from social and pecuniary considerations.  Even where a sweet countenance told truth about the life behind it, how seldom did the bridegroom appreciate what he had won!  For the most part, men who have great good fortune, in marriage, or in anything else, are incapable of tasting their success.  It is the imaginative being in the crowd below who marvels and is thrilled.

How was it with Arnold Jacks?  Did he understand what had befallen him?  If so, on what gleaming heights did he now live and move!  What rapture of gratitude must possess the man!  What humility!  What arrogance!

Piers had not met him since the engagement was made known; he hoped not to meet him for a long time.  Happily, in this holiday season, there was no fear of an invitation to Queen’s Gate.

Yet the unexpected happened.  Early in September, he received a note from John Jacks, asking him to dine.  The writer said that he had been at the seaside, and was tired of it, and meant to spend a week or two quietly in London; he was quite alone, so Otway need not dress.

Reassured by the last sentence of the letter, Piers gladly went; for he liked to talk with John Jacks, and had a troubled pleasure in the thought that he might hear something about the approaching marriage.  On his arrival, he was shown into the study, where his host lay on a sofa.  The greeting was cordial, the voice cheery as ever, but as Mr. Jacks rose he had more of the appearance of old age than Piers had yet seen in him; he seemed to stand with some difficulty, his face betokening a body ill at ease.

“How pleasant London is in September!” he exclaimed, with a laugh.  “I’ve been driving about, as one does in a town abroad, just to see the streets.  Strange that one knows Paris and Rome a good deal better than London.  Yet it’s really very interesting—­don’t you think?”

The twinkling eye, the humorous accent, which had won Piers’ affection, soon allayed his disquietude at being in this house.  He spoke of his own recent excursion, confessing that he better appreciated London from a distance.

“Ay, ay!  I know all about that,” replied Mr. Jacks, his Yorkshire note sounding, as it did occasionally.  “But you’re young, you’re young; what does it matter where you live?  To be your age again, I’d live at St. Helens, or Widnes.  You have hope, man, always hope.  And you may live to see what the world is like half a century from now.  It’s strange to look at you, and think that!”