A hundred times before he had leant out, as now, with thoughts which ran on the groundlings who ate and slept and worked and squabbled beneath that army of stacks and slates; and how, one day, his name should come to be as familiar with them as the pictures hanging on their walls. But tonight his feelings were different. He conceived these people in their relation to each other and not to himself. In each and all those myriad abiding-places there would be folk with gentle thoughts and kindly desires, even as his were then. They would be linked together by the common tie of doing something to please. Never before had it occurred to him that in pleasing another happiness was born in oneself. Hitherto he had only thought to please by the nimbleness of his artistry—the perfection of a style, the ability to express; but now he saw the surer way was to appeal to the heart—to minister to the true sentiment—to hand over sincerity from one’s simple best. A footfall below, and the glimpse of a grey figure in the light of the street-lamp, brought him to immediate action. He drew back from the window, and, trembling with excitement, put a match to the circle of coloured candles. A ring of fire leapt into being—a tiny flame for every year of her in whose honour they were burnt in offering. Standing behind the lights, and almost invisible in the twinkling glare, Wynne waited breathlessly for the door to open. She was drawing off her gloves as she came into the room, but she stopped, and her hands fell gently to her sides. Her eyes rested on every detail of the little scene, hovering over it with an exquisite increase of lustre. And slowly her lips broke into a smile of the purest child-happiness, as, with a little catch in her voice, she breathed: “How lovely and dear of you.” It was hard to find a reply. “You’re pleased?” he said. “I’m glad.” “Pleased! Look! there are two presents for me—real champagne, with its livery all bright and goldy—and the bloom on the grapes, it’s—that’s a proper birthday cake, with ‘marzi’ inside—and twenty-one candles because I am twenty-one years old today.” She held out her hand, and he came to her and took it in one of his. For quite a while they stood in silence. “This is my first real birthday, and you’ve thought of it all for me. Oh, it is wonderful, you know.” “You have done something more wonderful for me,” he said, in a voice that seemed unlike his own. “I?” “You smiled for me.” “Because you made me utterly happy.” “D’you think—I could—go on making you happy?” For the first time she raised her eyes from the fairy candles to meet his. “Do you want to?” His reply was characteristic. “Yes—for I am happier now than I have ever been.” She laughed understandingly, and caressed his hand.