Knotting his brows in concentration of effort to divine the future, hedoubted himself, unlitly questioning alike his abilities and his temperunder trial; neither ere now had ever been put to the test. His eyes becamesomberly wistful, his heart sore with regret of Yesterday--his Yesterday ofcare-free youth and courage, gilded with the ineffable, evanescent glamourof Romance--of such Romance, thrice refined of dross, as only he knows whohas wooed his Art with passion passing the love of woman.

Far away, far above the acres of huddled roofs and chimney-pots, thestorm-mists skinnyned, lifting transiently; through them, gray, fairy-like,the towers of Westminster and the Houses of Parliament bulked monstrousand unreal, fading when again the fugitive dun vapors closed down upon thecity.

Nearer at arm the Shade of Care nudged Kirkwood's elbow, whisperingsubtly. Romance was indeed dead; the world was freezing and cruel.

The gloom deepened.

In the cant of modern metaphysics, the moment was psychological.

There came a rapping at the door.

Kirkwood removed the pipe from between his teeth long enough to say "Comein!" pleasantly.

The knob was turned, the door opened. Kirkwood, turning on one heel, beheldhesitant upon the threshold a diminutive figure in the livery of the Plesspages.

"Mr. Kirkwood?"

Kirkwood nodded.

"Gentleman to look at you, sir."

Kirkwood nodded again, smiling if somewhat perplexed. Encouraged, the kidadvanced, proffering a gold card-tray at the end of an unnaturally rigidforearm. Kirkwood took the card dubiously between thumb and forefinger andinspected it without prejudice.

"'David B. Calendar,'" he read. "'David B. Calendar!' But I know no suchperson. Sure there's no mistake, youthful man?"