"Every one knows that," grinned Toltby, "except the husband." "Yes, the husband is generally the last to find out these things," remarked Pelk drily; and the conversation ended. Meanwhile Rolleston and Keith were playing their game of billiards, a pastime in which the former was an adept, and soon defeated Keith, who threw down his cue in half anger. "You always win," he said pettishly; "it's no use playing with you." "Oh, yes, it is," said Felix cheerfully. "I know I'm a good player, so if you play with me it will improve you very much--that remark sounds conceited, but it's true--come and have another game." "Not to-night," replied Keith; "I've got to keep my appointment with Mortimer--it's no use waiting for Lazarus." "Oh, yes, it is," cried a new voice, and Lazarus made his appearance at the door of the billiard-room. "I'm sorry for having kept you waiting, but it was unavoidable. I'll tell you all about it as we walk up." "All right," replied Keith, and turned to go, followed by Ezra, who nodded to Rolleston. "Good-night," cried that gentleman, making a cannon. "Good luck be with you." "Amen," responded Keith laughing, and disappeared with Ezra. CHAPTER XIV. A STRUGGLE FOR FAME. The two young men walked slowly up the street in the direction of the Bon-Bon Theatre, passing into Swanston Street just as the Town Hall clock struck eleven. It was a beautiful moonlight night, but no breeze was blowing, and the heat which the earth had drawn to her bosom during the day was now exhaled from the warm ground in a faint humid vapour. Crowds of people were in the streets sauntering idly along, evidently unwilling to go to bed. The great buildings stood up white and spectral-like on the one side of the street, while on the other they loomed out black against the clear sky. The garish flare of the innumerable street lamps seemed out of place under the serene splendour of the heavens, and the frequent cries of the street boys, and noisy rattling of passing cabs, jarred on the ear. At least Keith thought so, for, after walking in silence for some time, he turned with a gesture of irritation to his companion. "Isn't this noise disagreeable?" he said impatiently; "under such a perfect sky the city ought to lie dead like a fantastic dream of the Arabian Nights, but the gas lamps and incessant restlessness of Melbourne vulgarises the whole thing." "Poetical, certainly," replied Ezra, rousing himself from his abstraction; "but I should not care to inhabit an enchanted city. To me there is something grand in this restless crowd of people, all instinct with life and ambition--the gas lamps jar on your dream, but they are evidences of civilisation, and the hoarse murmur of the mob is like the mutterings of a distant storm, or white waves breaking on a lonely coast. No, my friend, leave the enchanted cities to dreamland, and live the busy life of the nineteenth century."