“‘Julien, Julien, won’t you make a great effort to kill your egoism? Cannot you see that your intolerance of all people because they have not the same fervour about poetry as yourself will eventually cripple all your powers? You sneer at Terry, who is one of the dearest boys, because he doesn’t want to hear you quote “The Hound of Heaven”; you sneer at your own father because you say that he doesn’t understand you. Oh, Julien, won’t you try to alter things for your own sake?’ “‘Not for yours?’ I sneered. “‘For your own, Julien,’ she replied quietly. “‘You don’t love me?’ “‘Not as you love me, Julien.’ “‘No, of course not! You don’t know what love is! I can eat my heart out for you; dream, dream, dream in London all the time, pine in the smoke, and no one understands me. No one! The poet is always the outcast, from Christ downwards. The world smashes and destroys genius--the genius that is always trying to make others see the beauty in the world, and make humanity happier.’ “‘No, not an outcast, Julien: a beloved friend who will rise above introspection, and be happy. But if that man be caged by egoism, isn’t it best to try to undo the door of that cage? Oh, Julien, if only you would believe.’ “She was distressed, and at the thought of hurting her a devil in me rejoiced. She had called Terry one of the dearest of boys. I seized upon the remark. “‘No doubt you are in love with Terry, who is blue-eyed and has such nice wavy hair. Well, go and marry him. _I_ shall never ask you to marry me again. Good-bye, Louise.’ “I walked away, and after a while turned to go back to her. We had been quarrelling, at least I had made my pitiable remarks, just where we are standing now. But when I returned she had gone. An insane conceit made me want to hurt her. I wanted to break her spirit--to make her believe in me first: then I would try to alter my views. Already I could see the truth of her remarks. I brooded, and my vitality was sapped. My pride, or conceit, faltered. Then, when I determined to crave her pity, I found she had gone away to Devon with her father. I wrote a bitter letter to her and left my home. I never wrote again to Louise, nor did she write to me. Not for a year. Then she wrote to me. And I came back. I was already a changed man. Her letter was short, and in it she said that she wished and prayed for my happiness. I came back humbly to see her----” He put a shaky hand up to his forehead, wet with moisture. His anguish was unbearable. I looked away to the yellow houses with their blue-gray roofs of slate; another tram passed in the High Street.