"My best chance," he thought, watching the stream of traffic that never failed to fascinate, "would be to write a loathsome article, topical, snappy and bright, and try to sell it for spot cash. I do not think it would be much good studying the advertisements and applying for a post as clerk or secretary. I hate the notion of being a clerk.... There is envelope-addressing, I believe, but I write a villainous hand ... nor do I care to call upon my friends and expose my unhappy condition...." (Since his father's death Lionel had naturally given up his old way of life and dropped out of his usual _milieu_.) ... "No; I think the loathsome article is clearly indicated. What shall I write about? 'How It Feels to be Out in the Streets?'... 'The Psychology of Landladies.'... 'At a Loose End--A Curbstone Study.'... How odd that I am desperately in need of money and hate the thought of sitting down to earn it! How much pleasanter would it be to stand here and wait for an adventure--for the fairy godmother who troubled the conventional Mrs. Barker! After all, it is not impossible.... A horse might take fright and bolt ... the driver lose his head ... a beauteous damsel sits wringing her hands in the carriage. I seize the opportunity, spring forward and check the maddened steed, escort the fainting lady home in a cab, and then--ah! Boundless Possibilities." He smiled, lighted a cigarette and pursued his idle fancy. "She must be, of course, the sole heiress of a millionaire. In his gratitude he would wish to reward me. But seeing that I am no vulgar fee-snatcher he would ask me to stay and dine. Over the walnuts and the port (how long is it since I drank good port?) he would learn my story, and with unusual delicacy say, 'Well, some day I hope I shall be able to help you to a job.' I leave his house, warm, full-fed, hopeful. The next morning he sends his car round, and I am whirled to his palatial city office. I enter--the great man is up to his knees in documents dictating to a staff of typewriters and gramophones. He spares me three minutes. 'Good morning, Mr. Mortimer. I find I need a secretary--salary a thousand a year. Oh! a bagatelle, I know, but you would have opportunities. Politics, perhaps. Anyhow, a beginning. Care to connect?' I accept with diffidence. 'Good. Take your coat off. Next room you'll find ...' I am a made man. Then the daughter--I had forgotten her, dear thing!--already touched by my heroism, might look favorably upon me; and who knows----?"