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"
He
has
a
red
lamp
in
his
window
has
he
not
?
"
Amiel
looked
deferentially
meditative
.
Yet
I
fancied
I
saw
him
smile
.
"
I
think
--
--
yes
--
I
believe
he
has
,
sir
.
"
I
asked
no
more
questions
,
but
allowed
him
to
perform
his
duties
as
valet
in
silence
.
"
Good-night
sir
!
"
he
said
at
last
,
his
ferret
eyes
fastened
upon
me
with
an
expressionless
look
"
Good-night
!
"
I
responded
indifferently
.
He
left
the
room
with
his
usual
cat-like
stealthy
tread
,
and
when
he
had
gone
,
I
--
moved
by
a
sudden
fresh
impulse
of
hatred
for
him
--
sprang
to
the
door
and
locked
it
.
Then
I
listened
,
with
an
odd
nervous
breathlessness
.
There
was
not
a
sound
.
For
fully
quarter
of
an
hour
I
remained
with
my
attention
more
or
less
strained
,
expectant
of
I
knew
not
what
;
but
the
quiet
of
the
house
was
absolutely
undisturbed
.
With
a
sigh
of
relief
I
flung
myself
on
the
luxurious
bed
--
a
couch
fit
for
a
king
,
draped
with
the
richest
satin
elaborately
embroidered
--
and
falling
soundly
asleep
I
dreamed
that
I
was
poor
again
.
Poor
--
but
unspeakably
happy
--
and
hard
at
work
in
the
old
lodging
,
writing
down
thoughts
which
I
knew
,
by
some
divine
intuition
and
beyond
all
doubt
,
would
bring
me
the
whole
world
's
honour
.
Again
I
heard
the
sounds
of
the
violin
played
by
my
unseen
neighbour
next
door
,
and
this
time
they
were
triumphal
chords
and
cadences
of
joy
,
without
one
throb
of
sorrow
.
And
while
I
wrote
on
in
an
ecstasy
of
inspiration
,
oblivious
of
poverty
and
pain
,
I
heard
,
echoing
through
my
visions
,
the
round
warble
of
the
nightingale
,
and
saw
,
in
the
far
distance
,
an
angel
floating
towards
me
on
pinions
of
light
,
with
the
face
of
Mavis
Clare
.
The
morning
broke
clear
,
with
all
the
pure
tints
of
a
fine
opal
radiating
in
the
cloudless
sky
.
Never
had
I
beheld
such
a
fair
scene
as
the
woods
and
gardens
of
Willowsmere
when
I
looked
upon
them
that
day
illumined
by
the
unclouded
sunlight
of
a
spring
half-melting
into
summer
.
My
heart
swelled
with
pride
as
I
surveyed
the
beautiful
domain
I
now
owned
--
and
thought
how
happy
a
home
it
would
make
when
Sibyl
,
matchless
in
her
loveliness
,
shared
with
me
its
charm
and
luxury
.
"
Yes
,
"
--
I
said
half-aloud
--
"
Say
what
philosophers
will
,
the
possession
of
money
does
insure
satisfaction
and
power
.
It
is
all
very
well
to
talk
about
fame
,
but
what
is
fame
worth
,
if
,
like
Carlyle
,
one
is
too
poor
to
enjoy
it
!
Besides
,
literature
no
longer
holds
its
former
high
prestige
--
there
are
too
many
in
the
field
--
too
many
newspaper-scribblers
,
all
believing
they
are
geniuses
--
too
many
ill-educated
lady-paragraphists
and
'
new
'
women
,
who
think
they
are
as
gifted
as
Georges
Sand
or
Mavis
Clare
.
With
Sibyl
and
Willowsmere
,
I
ought
to
be
able
to
resign
the
idea
of
fame
--
literary
fame
--
with
a
good
grace
.
"
I
knew
I
reasoned
falsely
with
myself
--
I
knew
that
my
hankering
for
a
place
among
the
truly
great
of
the
world
,
was
as
strong
as
ever
--
I
knew
I
craved
for
the
intellectual
distinction
,
force
,
and
pride
which
make
the
Thinker
a
terror
and
a
power
in
the
land
,
and
which
so
sever
a
great
poet
or
great
romancist
from
the
commoner
throng
that
even
kings
are
glad
to
do
him
or
her
honour
--
but
I
would
not
allow
my
thoughts
to
dwell
on
this
rapidly
vanishing
point
of
unattainable
desire
.
I
settled
my
mind
to
enjoy
the
luscious
flavour
of
the
immediate
present
,
as
a
bee
settles
in
the
cup
of
honey-flowers
--
and
,
leaving
my
bedroom
,
I
went
downstairs
to
breakfast
with
Lucio
in
the
best
and
gayest
of
humours
.
