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The
night
was
bitter
cold
.
My
hands
were
numbed
,
and
I
tried
to
warm
them
at
the
oil-lamp
my
landlady
was
good
enough
to
still
allow
me
the
use
of
,
in
spite
of
delayed
cash-payments
.
As
I
did
so
,
I
noticed
three
letters
on
the
table
--
one
in
a
long
blue
envelope
suggestive
of
either
a
summons
or
a
returned
manuscript
--
one
bearing
the
Melbourne
postmark
,
and
the
third
a
thick
square
missive
coroneted
in
red
and
gold
at
the
back
.
I
turned
over
all
three
indifferently
,
and
selecting
the
one
from
Australia
,
balanced
it
in
my
hand
a
moment
before
opening
it
.
I
knew
from
whom
it
came
,
and
idly
wondered
what
news
it
brought
me
.
Some
months
previously
I
had
written
a
detailed
account
of
my
increasing
debts
and
difficulties
to
an
old
college
chum
,
who
finding
England
too
narrow
for
his
ambition
had
gone
out
to
the
wider
New
world
on
a
speculative
quest
of
gold
mining
.
He
was
getting
on
well
,
so
I
understood
,
and
had
secured
a
fairly
substantial
position
;
and
I
had
therefore
ventured
to
ask
him
point-blank
for
the
loan
of
fifty
pounds
.
Here
,
no
doubt
,
was
his
reply
,
and
I
hesitated
before
breaking
the
seal
.
"
Of
course
it
will
be
a
refusal
,
"
I
said
half-aloud
--
"
However
kindly
a
friend
may
otherwise
be
,
he
soon
turns
crusty
if
asked
to
lend
money
.
He
will
express
many
regrets
,
accuse
trade
and
the
general
bad
times
and
hope
I
will
soon
'
tide
over
.
'
I
know
the
sort
of
thing
.
Well
--
after
all
,
why
should
I
expect
him
to
be
different
to
other
men
?
I
've
no
claim
on
him
beyond
the
memory
of
a
few
sentimental
arm-in-arm
days
at
Oxford
.
"
A
sigh
escaped
me
in
spite
of
myself
,
and
a
mist
blurred
my
sight
for
the
moment
.
Again
I
saw
the
grey
towers
of
peaceful
Magdalen
,
and
the
fair
green
trees
shading
the
walks
in
and
around
the
dear
old
University
town
where
we
--
I
and
the
man
whose
letter
I
now
held
in
my
hand
--
strolled
about
together
as
happy
youths
,
fancying
that
we
were
young
geniuses
born
to
regenerate
the
world
.
We
were
both
fond
of
classics
--
we
were
brimful
of
Homer
and
the
thoughts
and
maxims
of
all
the
immortal
Greeks
and
Latins
--
and
I
verily
believe
,
in
those
imaginative
days
,
we
thought
we
had
in
us
such
stuff
as
heroes
are
made
of
.
But
our
entrance
into
the
social
arena
soon
robbed
us
of
our
sublime
conceit
--
we
were
common
working
units
,
no
more
--
the
grind
and
prose
of
daily
life
put
Homer
into
the
background
,
and
we
soon
discovered
that
society
was
more
interested
in
the
latest
unsavoury
scandal
than
in
the
tragedies
of
Sophocles
or
the
wisdom
of
Plato
.
Well
!
it
was
no
doubt
extremely
foolish
of
us
to
dream
that
we
might
help
to
regenerate
a
world
in
which
both
Plato
and
Chris
appear
to
have
failed
--
yet
the
most
hardened
cynic
will
scarcely
deny
that
it
is
pleasant
to
look
back
to
the
days
of
his
youth
if
he
can
think
that
at
least
then
,
if
only
once
in
his
life
,
he
had
noble
impulses
.
The
lamp
burned
badly
,
and
I
had
to
re-trim
it
before
I
could
settle
down
to
read
my
friend
's
letter
.
Next
door
someone
was
playing
a
violin
,
and
playing
it
well
.
Tenderly
and
yet
with
a
certain
amount
of
brio
the
notes
came
dancing
from
the
bow
,
and
I
listened
,
vaguely
pleased
.
Being
faint
with
hunger
I
was
somewhat
in
a
listless
state
bordering
on
stupor
--
and
the
penetrating
sweetness
of
the
music
appealing
to
the
sensuous
and
æsthetic
part
of
me
,
drowned
for
the
moment
mere
animal
craving
.
"
There
you
go
!
"
I
murmured
,
apostrophizing
the
unseen
musician
--
"
practising
away
on
that
friendly
fiddle
of
yours
--
no
doubt
for
a
mere
pittance
which
barely
keeps
you
alive
.
Possibly
you
are
some
poor
wretch
in
a
cheap
orchestra
--
or
you
might
even
be
a
street-player
and
be
able
to
live
in
this
neighbourhood
of
the
élite
starving
--
you
can
have
no
hope
whatever
of
being
the
'
fashion
'
and
making
your
bow
before
Royalty
--
or
if
you
have
that
hope
,
it
is
wildly
misplaced
.
Play
on
,
my
friend
,
play
on
!
--
the
sounds
you
make
are
very
agreeable
,
and
seem
to
imply
that
you
are
happy
.
I
wonder
if
you
are
?
--
or
if
,
like
me
,
you
are
going
rapidly
to
the
devil
!
"
The
music
grew
softer
and
more
plaintive
,
and
was
now
accompanied
by
the
rattle
of
hailstones
against
the
window-panes
.
A
gusty
wind
whistled
under
the
door
and
roared
down
the
chimney
--
a
wind
cold
as
the
grasp
of
death
and
searching
as
a
probing
knife
.
I
shivered
--
and
bending
close
over
the
smoky
lamp
,
prepared
to
read
my
Australian
news
.
As
I
opened
the
envelope
,
a
bill
for
fifty
pounds
,
payable
to
me
at
a
well-known
London
banker
's
,
fell
out
upon
the
table
.
My
heart
gave
a
quick
bound
of
mingled
relief
and
gratitude
.
"
Why
Jack
,
old
fellow
,
I
wronged
you
!
"
I
exclaimed
--
"
Your
heart
is
in
the
right
place
after
all
.
"
