Page:The cry for justice - an anthology of the literature of social protest. - (IA cryforjusticea00sinc).pdf/805

 in solitude. Only he who belonged to no class, who was rejected alike by his fellows in privation and by his equals in intellect, must die without having known the touch of a loving woman's hand.

The summer went by, and he was unconscious of its warmth and light. How his days passed he could not have said

One evening in early autumn, as he stood before the book-stall at the end of Goodge Street, a familiar voice accosted him. It was Whelpdale's. A month or two ago he had stubbornly refused an invitation to dine with Whelpdale and other acquaintances, and since then the prosperous young man had not crossed his path.

"I've something to tell you," said the assailer, taking hold of his arm. "I'm in a tremendous state of mind, and want someone to share my delight You know Dora Milvain; I have asked her to marry me, and, by the Powers! she has given me an encouraging answer! Not an actual yes, but encouraging! She's away in the Channel Islands, and I wrote"

He talked on for a quarter of an hour. Then, with a sudden movement, the listener freed himself.

"I can't go any farther," he said hoarsely. "Good-*bye!"

Whelpdale was disconcerted.

"I have been boring you. That's a confounded fault of mine; I know it."

Biffen had waved his hand, and was gone.

A week or two would see him at the end of his money. He had no lessons now, and could not write; from his novel nothing was to be expected. He might apply again to his brother, but such dependence was unjust and unworthy. And why should he struggle to preserve a life which had no prospect but of misery?