stood prominently forward, which was, that I
had done something which, had it been the act
of a royal prince, would yet have been unpardonable,
but which, if known to emanate from one
such as myself, would have been a downright
outrage.

I went into the whole case, as a man who
detests figures might have gone into a long and
complicated account; and just as he would skip
small sums, and pay little heed to fractions, I
aimed at arriving at some grand solid balance
for or against myself.

I felt, that if asked to produce my books, they
might run this wise: Potts, on the credit side,
a philanthropist, self-denying, generous, and
trustful; one eager to do good, thinking no evil
of his neighbour, hopeful of everybody, anxious
to establish that brotherhood amongst men
which, however varied the station, could and
ought to subsist, and which needs but the
connecting link of one sympathetic existence to
establish. On the other side, Potts, I grieve to
say, appeared that which Ferdinand Alendez
Pinto was said to be.

When I had rallied a bit from the stunning
effect of this disagreeable "total," I began to
wish that I had somebody to argue the matter
out with me. The way I would put my case
would be thus: "Has not— from the time of
Quintus Curtius down to the late Mr. Sadleir,
of banking celebrity the sacrifice of one man
for the benefit of his fellows been recognised
as the noblest exposition of heroism? Now,
although it is much to give up life for the advantage
of others, it is far more to surrender one's
identity, to abandon that grand capital Ego!
which gives a man his self-esteem and suggests
his self preservation. And who, I would ask, does
this so thoroughly as the man who everlastingly
palms himself upon the world for that which he
is not? According to the greatest happiness
principle, this man may be a real boon to
humanity. He feeds this one with hope, the other
with flattery; he bestows courage on the weak,
confidence on the wavering. The rich man can
give of his abundance, but it is out of his very
poverty this poor fellow has to bestow all. Like
the spider, he has to weave his web from his own
vitals, and like the same spider he may be swept
away by some pretentious affectation of
propriety."

While I thus argued, the waiter came in to
serve dinner. It looked all appetising and nice;
but I could not touch a morsel. I was sick at
heart; Kate Herbert's last look as she quitted
the room was ever before me. Those dark grey
eyes—which you stupid folk will go on calling
blue—have a sort of reproachful power in them
very remarkable. They don't flash out in anger
like black eyes, or sparkle in fierceness like
hazel; but they emit a sort of steady, fixed,
concentrated light, that seems to imply that
they have looked thoroughly into you, and come
back very sad and very sorry for the inquiry. I
thought of the happy days I had passed beside
her; I recalled her low and gentle voice, her
sweet half sad smile, and her playful laugh, and
I said, "Have I lost all these for ever, and how?
What stupid folly possessed me last evening?
How could I have been so idiotic as not to see
that I was committing the rankest of all
enormities? How should I, in my insignificance,
dare to assail the barriers and defences which
civilisation has established, and guards amongst
its best prerogatives? Was this old buffoon,
was this piece of tawdry fringe and spangles, a
fitting company for that fair and gentle girl?
How artistically false, too, was the position I
had taken. Interweaving into my ideal life these
coarse realities, was the same sort of outrage
as shocks one in some of the Venetian churches,
where a lovely Madonna, the work of a great
hand, may be seen bedizened and disfigured with
precious stones over her drapery. In this was I
violating the whole poetry of my existence. These
figures were as much out of keeping as would
be a couple of Ostade's Boors in a grand
Scripture piece by Domenichino.

"And yet, Potts," thought I, "they were
really living creatures. They had hearts for
joy and sorrow and hope and the rest of it.
They were pilgrims travelling the self-same road
as you were. They were not illusions, but flesh
and blood folk, that would shiver when cold,
and die of hunger if starved. Were they not
then, as such, of more account than all your
mere imaginings? would not the least of their
daily miseries outweigh a whole bushel of fancied
sorrow? and is it not a poor selfishness on your
part, when you deem some airy conception of
your brain of more account than that poor old
man and that dark-eyed girl. Last of all,
are they not, in all their ragged finery, more
'really true men' than you yourself, Potts, living
in a maze of delusions? They only act when
the sawdust is raked and the lamps are lighted;
but you are 'en scène' from dawn to dark,
and only lay down one motley to don another.
Is not this wretched? Is it not ignoble? In
all these changes of character, how much of
the real man will be left behind? Will there
be one morsel of honest flesh when all the
lacquer of paint is washed off? And was it—
oh, was it for this you first adventured out on
the wide ocean of life?"

I passed the evening and a great part of the
night in such self-accusmgs, and then I addressed
myself to action. I bethought me of my future,
and with whom and where and how it might be
passed. The bag of money entrusted to me by
the minister to pay the charges of the road was
hanging where I had placed it—on the curtain-
holder. I opened it, and found a hundred and
forty gold Napoleons, and some ten or twelve
pounds in silver. I next set to count over my
own especial hoard; it was a fraction under a
thousand francs. Forty pounds was truly a
very small sum wherewith to confront a world
to which I brought not any art, or trade, or
means of livelihood; I say forty, because I had
not the shadow of a pretext for touching the
other sum, and I resolved at once to transmit
it to the owner. Now, what could be done with
so humble a capital? I had heard of a great