Once, with a sneer and as one man of the world to another, Helzephron had shown Lothian a trade paper in which these girls are advertised for-- "Barmaid wanted, must be attractive." "Young lady wanted for select wine-room in the West End, gentlemen only, must be well educated and of good appearance, age not over twenty-five." "Required at once, attractive young lady as barmaid--young. Photograph." . . . A great depression fell upon the poet. Everywhere he turned just now ennui and darkness seemed to confront him. His youth was going. His fame brought no pleasure nor contentment. The easy financial circumstances of his life seemed to roll over him like a weed-clogged wave. His wife's love and care--was not that losing its savour also? The delightful labour of writing, the breathless and strenuous clutching at the waiting harps of poetry, was not he fainting and failing in this high effort, too? His life was a grey, numbed thing. He was reminded of it whichever way he turned. There was a time when the Holy Mysteries brought him a joy which was priceless and unutterable. Yes! when he knelt at the Mass with Mary by his side, he had felt the breath of Paradise upon his brow. Emptied of all earthly things his soul had entered into the mystical Communion of Saints. To husband and wife, in humble supplication side by side, the still small voice had spoken. The rushing wind of the Holy Ghost had risen around them and the Passion of Jesus been more near. And now?--the man rose from his chair with a laugh so sad and hollow, a face so contorted with pain, that it startled the silly girl behind the bar. She made a rapid calculation. "He was sober when 'e come," she thought in the vernacular, "and 'e can stand a lot, can Mr. Lothian. It's nothing. Them poets!" "Something amusing you?" she said with her best smile. Lothian nodded. "Oh, just my thoughts," he replied. "Give me another whiskey and soda--a fat one, yes, a little more, yes, that'll do." For a moment, a moment of hesitation, he held it out at arm's length. The sunlight of the afternoon blazed into the glass and turned the liquid to molten gold. The light came from a window in the roof, just over the bar itself. The remainder of the room was in quiet shadow. He looked down into the room and shuddered. It was typical of his life now. He looked up at the half open window from which the glory came. "Oh, that I had the wings of a dove!" he said, with a sad smile. Molly Palmer watched him. "Juggins!" she thought, "them poets!" But Lothian's words seemed to call for some rejoinder and the girl was at a loss. "Wish you meant it!" she said at length, wondering if that would meet the occasion--as it often met others. Lothian laughed, and drank down the whiskey. The light from above faded almost instantly--perhaps a cloud was passing over the sun. But, _au contraire_, the shadow of the room beyond had invitation now. It no longer seemed sombre.