“_The Oracle_,” he wrote, “is the Mungo of the London Press—a sniffing wretch for ever scrabbling garbage in the national refuse heaps.” There was a good deal more in this style, and the compositor, while setting up the type, was not a little disturbed in mind. “Is this to be printed?” he asked Wynne. “Certainly.” “Danged if I can see what the idea is.” “Imagine the sales, and go ahead.” The entire issue had to be destroyed, but one or two copies escaped from the printer’s hands, and a rival flew to hilarious headlines about it. To the amazement of every one Wynne marched into the office the morning after he had perpetrated the offence. “What the hell is the idea?” shouted the editor. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” “Getting even with my conscience,” replied Wynne. He looked very frail and insignificant with the semi-circle of scarlet, inflamed countenances and threatening fists besetting him. “If you don’t want to be killed, take your blasted conscience out of here.” He did, but with no great speed, although many were the offers of violence made as he passed out. V On the Embankment Wynne apologized to God very sincerely for having debased his art. It was rather a pretty little prayer which he put up, and had a gentler tenor than his wonted expression. After it was finished he felt easier in mind, and comforted. But when he returned to his rooms the oppression of a great loneliness took command of his soul. Of late this feeling had dominated his thoughts not a little. He desired some one to whom he might confess his thoughts and fears, some one of the sympathetic intellect, who could smooth out the harsher creases of life’s cloak, and give companionable warmth to the solitary hours. No such friendships had come his way, and when he turned his thoughts more closely to the subject he could not imagine that he would be likely to happen upon such a one. Beyond the intermittent flashes of Uncle Clem’s society there had been no one with whom he could discuss his real feelings and emotions. Pride, and desire to excel, had kept him from seeking Uncle Clem when the mood of loneliness was upon him. He, as it were, saved up that friendship for the great days ahead. The few occasions when he had sought to quicken intimacy from acquaintance had invariably led to nothing. Once a young actor asked him to share an idle hour or two, and before they arrived at the end of the street stopped at the door of a public-house and invited him to enter. “Let’s get primed—what do you say?” And Wynne said, “Need we? I don’t drink for a hobby.” “Care for a game of pills?” “Not very much.” “Well, what _do_ you care about?” The suggestion that in order to be entertained one must either drink or play billiards made Wynne laugh, and since no man cares to have his more serious pleasures ridiculed, the young actor snorted, and left him to spend the rest of the evening alone.