“In the first place,” and he paused a moment—“I am very much in debt.” The young man spoke as he might of taking a cold asleep in the open air—as if he had been exposed to debt and had caught it. The first look of sadness rose and deepened over his face as he shook his head dejectedly. “But I’ll get over it—‘Time and I.’ Don’t you rather like the astute old king after all, Mr. Maskelyne?” “By your own exertions?” asked the lawyer, dryly, and evading the question. “I write a little,” replied the impenitent, modestly. “I have even heard of people who admired some of my verses.” “You have no other occupation?” Old Maskelyne was asking enough questions now. Indeed, under the magic of the stranger’s manner he had quite forgotten himself, his usual caution, and even the exceptional manner in which his companion had been introduced to him. “Yes,” the other admitted, “I am a lawyer.” “Don’t you think,” said the older man, answering almost instinctively, “that on the whole you might find the employments of the law more remunerative than the calling of a—poet?” [Illustration: [Algebra]] “Mr. Maskelyne, I sometimes think that the world really believes in the sort of thing underlying your question—that there is wisdom in what it so complacently repeats as indisputable. And I am sent here phrase-gathering—to carry off small packages of words put up in little flat, portable sentences, alternatives ready for daily use. But there are gains you cannot invest in lands and stocks—columns with statues at the top as well as columns whose sums are at the bottom. Wasn’t ‘Le Barbier’ a better investment than any in Roderigue Hortales et Cie., and what could John Ballantyne & Co. show beside ‘Guy Mannering?’ If the world says what it does, it mustn’t do as it does. It’s inconsistent. Who will undertake to strike the balance between fame and fortune; what mathematician will undertake to say that _x_, the unknown quantity of fame, does not equal the dollar-mark?” Then he added, after a moment’s pause, “Mr. Maskelyne, don’t you think it is true that “‘One crowded hour of glorious life, Is worth a world without a name,’— don’t you really?” It was hard to resist such enthusiasm, such unquestioning certainty. The old lawyer did not even smile as he lay back in his chair, a new life shooting through every nerve, his gaze fixed on the flushing face of the young man.