She had always asked for work, she reminded herself when she was alone--real work, necessary work--not the fads with which rich women try to deceive themselves by calling them work. Behold! here was every prospect of as much work as she liked, and yet she found nothing cheering in it. Only--anything to get away from this sham life of sham luxury, sham state, sham riches, sham everything--away from the world’s eyes and those of Sebastian, into obscurity and poverty, which, she felt, would be no shams, but stern realities, with front of brass and eyes of stone. CHAPTER XIX. IRREVOCABLE. ‘Good-bye, Heywood, I wish you every success, and you carry the assurance of success in yourself. You will return to England a man of mark.’ ‘I trust never to return to England,’ replied Myles, standing up in Sebastian’s study, in the act of going. ‘I am afraid it will seem ungracious to you when I say I don’t care much about success. I want work; I don’t care whether it’s successful or not. There’s a verse in the Bible about “What shall it profit a man if he gain the whole world and lose his own soul?” There may be many sorts of souls, don’t you think so?’ ‘Yes, certainly. But I think time will soften these feelings of yours. Some time you will find yourself wishing to return to England.’ Myles shook his head, with a half-smile, at once melancholy and sceptical. He ever wish to return to the place where Adrienne lived, Sebastian Mallory’s wife! They had left the study, and gone to the hall door. Straight before them, separated only by the garden and the dirty little river, was the broad, busy street--the beautiful building of the town-hall rose through the dusk before them. Lights twinkled; feet and wheels sped rapidly past. As they paused before the open door, the chimes rang out, clear and melodious; nine struck solemnly, and the old tune which haunted Myles, so interwoven was it with all the most sacred feelings of his life, was borne through the air in broken, fitful gusts of sound. Sebastian heard it too. ‘Take that as an omen,’ said he, earnestly. ‘The old poet old Martin Usteri, in his homely German town, touched a deeper truth when he wrote that little song of his, than all our present pessimistic sages put together can cram into their learned books. Don’t forget the tune when you are away.’ ‘I am not likely ever to forget it,’ said Myles. ‘Good-bye, and thank you. I cannot say more.’ With a pressure of the hand he was gone. Sebastian heard his quick step along the gravel--then he heard the gate open and swing to after him; and then Myles Heywood’s form and footsteps were lost in the general rush along the busy street. Sebastian was left to listen to the last echoes of the chimes, and to hum softly to himself-- ‘Freut Euch des Lebens, Weil noch das Lämpchen glüht! Pflücket die Rose, Eh’ sie verblüht.’