"Perhaps," she said, in unconscious imitation of her brother; "mind, I only say perhaps." A footfall on the stairs; a brighter flush on Lily's cheek; knock at the door, and Felix entered. Happy moments followed. There was no lack of conversation when these three were together. But Lily had her duties to perform, and within an hour they were walking towards the Royal White Rose, and Felix bade Lily good-night at the stage-door. "She sings early to-night," said Old Wheels, as they lingered near the entrance to the hall, and watched the strangely-suggestive throng that found their business or pleasure there. The words of a poet came to Felix, and he murmured the lines, "In the street the tide of being, how it surges, how it rolls! God what base ignoble faces God! what bodies wanting souls!" But Old Wheels interrupted him with, "Not so, Felix; that is a poet's rhapsody, and not applicable here. Look around you; you will see but few base ignoble faces. Some of them might be taken as models for innocence, simplicity, guilelessness. See here, and here." He indicated this girl and that, whose pretty features and the expression on them served to illustrate his meaning. "No," he continued, "not bodies wanting souls. They are misguided, ill-taught, misdirected, the unhappy ones of a system which seems to create them and make them multiply. The light attracts them; they see only the glitter, and do not feel the flame until they fly to it gaily; when, bewildered and dazzled, they are burnt and die, or live maimed lives for the rest of their days." "I did not quote those lines," said Felix, "with any distinct idea of their applicability to this scene. What follows will please you better:-- 'Mid this stream of human being, banked by houses tall and grim, Pale I stand this shining morrow, with a pant for woodlands dim; To hear the soft and whispering rain, feel the dewy cool of leaves; Watch the lightning dart like swallows round the brooding thunder-eaves; To lose the sense of whirling streets 'mong breezy crests of hills, Skies of larks, and hazy landscapes, with fine threads of silver rills; Stand with forehead bathed in sunset on a mountain's summer crown, And look up and watch the shadow of the great night coming down; One great life in my myriad veins, in leaves, in flowers, in cloudy cars, Blowing, underfoot, in clover; beating, overhead, in stars!'" "How many men have such vague dreams," said Old Wheels, "dreams that they can scarcely understand and can but feebly express! We live in a world of shadows. Come home with me; I have something to give you."