He remembered half unconsciously that Charles Ravenshoe had said, "Will the dawn never come? Will the dawn never come?" and he began to moan it aloud, with an æsthetic pleasure in the feeling of desolation and melancholy wasted hours--"will the dawn _never_ come?" He came opposite the looking-glass, and was struck with the beauty of his own face, sad and pure. He gazed intently for a minute or two, then his features relaxed, and he breathed hard and smiled, murmuring, "Ah, well, a little purity and romance whip the jaded soul pleasantly. Goodie is a darling, and I love her, but still the others were amusing and piquant. They were the iota subscripts of love!" There were still two more letters to be opened. One ran:-- "162_a_, STRAND, W.C. "DEAR MR. YARDLY GOBION,--I shall be glad if you will do us a review of Canon Emeric's new book, _Art and Religion_. We can take half a column--leaded type; and shall be glad to have the copy by Friday at the latest. Are you going to be in town at all soon? If so I shall possibly be able to give you work on _The Pilgrim_, as we want an extra man, and I have been quite satisfied with what you have done for us so far. "Please do not be later than Friday with the review. "Believe me, yours very truly, "JAMES HEATH." "Just what I want! good--I like _The Pilgrim_, it's smart--this is luck. I suppose they like my 'occ' reviews. Heath always likes work that keeps cleverly on the border, and I imagine that I have shown him how to be realistic without being indelicate. Dear old Providence manages things very well after all. I really must do a short drink on the strength of this." And he had some more brandy. The last letter was simply a breakfast invitation. He sat up for half an hour more making plans for the morrow, finally deciding to borrow all the money he could and go up to town in the afternoon. It was now nearly half-past one, and the excitement of the debate and later of the letters had left him shaking and tired, so he turned out the light and went into his bedroom. Just as he was closing the door of communication, he noticed by the firelight that his father's letter had dropped on the hearthrug, and he went back, putting it in the fire with a grin. Then the door shut, and the room was silent. CHAPTER II. _SCOTT IS LONELY._ Bravery Reginald Scott, of Merton, was one of Gobion's chief admirers. He thought that no one was so clever or so good, and felt sure that his friend's traducers--and they were many--had never really got down below the crust of cynicism and surface immorality of mind as he had done. He certainly knew that Gobion occasionally drank more than was good for him, but he put it down to misadventure more than taste. He was a good young man, rather commonplace in intellect, but of a blameless life and an unsuspicious, happy temperament.