Henry Galleon came over to Peter's chair and put his hand upon the boy's arm.

"I am at the end of my work. I have done what I can. You are at the beginning of yours. You will do what you can. I wish you good fortune."

A vision came to Peter. Through the open window, against the sheet of stars, gigantic, was the Rider on the Lion.

He could not see the Rider's face.

A great exultation inflamed him.

At that instant he was stripped bare. His history, the people whom he knew, the things that he had done, they were all as though they had never been.

His soul was, for that great moment, naked and alone before God.

"The whole duty of Art is listening for the voice of God...."

A sound, as though it came to him from another world, broke into the room.

There were voices and steps on the stairs.

"Ah, they are back from their party," Henry Galleon said, trotting happily to the door. "Come up and have a chat with my wife, Westcott, before going to bed."

CHAPTER III

THE ENCOUNTER

I

Peter was now the young man of the moment. He took this elevation with frank delight, was encouraged by it, gave it all rather more, perhaps, than its actual value, began a new novel, "The Stone House," started weekly reviewing on _The Interpreter_ and yielded himself up entirely to Clare Rossiter.

He had been in love with her ever since that first day at Norah Monogue's, but the way that she gradually now absorbed him was like nothing so much as the slow covering of the rocks and the sand by the incoming tide. At first, in those days at Brockett's, she had seemed to him something mysterious, intangible, holy. But after that meeting in Cheyne Walk he knew her for a prize that some fortunate man might, one day, win. He did not, for an instant, suppose that he could ever be that one, but the mere imagined picture of what some other would one day have, sent the blood rushing through him. Her holiness for him was still intact but for another there would be human, earthly wonders.

Then, curiously, as he met her more often and knew her better there came a certain easy, almost casual, intercourse. One Clare Rossiter still reigned amongst the clouds, but there was now too another easy, fascinating, humorous creature who treated him almost like Alice Galleon herself--laughed at him, teased him, provoked him ... suddenly, like a shadow across a screen, would slip away; and he be on his knees again before something that was only to be worshipped.

These two shapes of her crossed and were confused and again were parted.

His thoughts were first worshipping in heaven, then dwelling with delight on witty, charming things that she had said.

For that man, when he came, there would be a most wonderful treasure.

Peter now lost his appetite. He could not sleep at night. He would slip out of his room, cross the silent Chelsea streets and watch her dark window. He cultivated Mrs. Rossiter and that massive and complacent lady took it entirely to herself. Indeed, nothing, at this time was more remarkable than the little stir that Peter's devotion caused. It was perhaps that Clare had always had a cloud of young men about her, perhaps that Peter was thought to be having too wonderful a time, just now, to be falling in love as well--that would be piling Life on to Life! ... no one could live under it.

Besides Mrs. Rossiter liked him ... he was amazing, you see ... people said....

And the next stage arrived.

One May evening, at the Galleons' house, when some one was playing the piano and all the world seemed to be sitting in corners Clare's hand lay suddenly against his. The smooth outer curve of his hand lay against her palm. Their little fingers touched. Sheets of fire rose, inflamed him and fell ... rose again and fell. His hand began to shake, her hand began to shake. He heard, a thousand miles away, some one singing about "the morn."

Their hands parted. She rose and slowly, her white dress and red-gold hair flung against a background that seemed to him black and infinite, crossed the room.

That trembling of her hand had maddened him. It suddenly showed him that he--as well as another--might run the race for her. Everything that he had ever done or been--his sentiments, his grossnesses, his restraints and his rebellions--were now concerned in this pursuit. No other human being--Stephen, Norah Monogue, Bobby, Alice--now had any interest for him. His reviews were written he knew not how, the editions of "Reuben Hallard" might run into the gross for all he cared, "The Stone House"

lay neglected.

And he avoided seeing her. He was afraid to spoil that moment when her hand had shaken at the touch of his, and yet he was tormented by the longing for a new meeting that might provide some new amazement. Perhaps he would hold her hand and feel the shadow of her body bending towards his own! And his heart stopped beating; and he was suddenly cold with a splendid terror.

Then he did meet her again and had nothing to say. It seemed to him that she was frightened. He came home that day in a cold fog of miserable despair. A letter from his publishers informing him of a tenth edition was of ironical unimportance. He lay awake all night restlessly unhappy.

For the first time for many months the old shadows stole out into the room--the black bulk of Scaw House--the trees, the windows, his father....

And to him, tossing on his bed there came thoughts of a certain house in the town. He could get up and dress now--a cab would soon take him there ... in the early morning he could slink back.

Clare did not want him! A fool to fancy that she had ever cared.

He, Peter Westcott, nobody! Why then should he not have his adventures, he still so young and vigorous? He would go to that house....

And then, almost reluctantly, as he sat up in bed and watched the grey, shadowy walls, Stephen seemed to be visible to him--Stephen, walking the road, starting early in the fresh air when the light was breaking and the scent of the grass was cool and filled with dew.

He would write to Stephen in the morning--he lay down and went to sleep.

By this time, meanwhile, Alice and Bobby had noticed. Alice, indeed, had a number of young men over whose emotions she kept guard and Peter had become, during these weeks, very valuable to her....

She did not want him to marry anybody--especially she did not want him to marry Clare. At breakfast, past Peter's ears, as though he were not concerned at all, she talked to Bobby--

"Really, Dr. Rossiter spoils Clare beyond all bounds--"

"Um?"

"He's taking her with him up to Glasgow to that Congress thing. He knows perfectly well that she ought to stay with Mrs. Rossiter--and so does she."

"Well, it's no business of ours--" Bobby's usual tolerant complacency.

"It is. Clare might be a fine creature if she didn't let herself be spoiled in this way. She's perpetually selfish and she ought to be told so."

"We're all perpetually selfish," said Bobby who began to be sorry for Peter.

"Oh! no, we're not. I'm very fond of Clare but I don't envy the man who marries her. There's no one in the world more delightful when she has her own way and things go smoothly, but they've wrapped her up in cotton wool to such an extent that she simply doesn't know how to live out of it. She's positively terrified of _Life_."

This, as Alice had intended, was too much for Peter. He burst out--

"I think Miss Rossiter's the pluckiest girl I've ever met. She's afraid of nothing."

"Except of being uncomfortable," Alice retorted. "That frightens her into fits. Make her uncomfortable, Peter, and you'll see--"

And, red in the face, Peter answered--"I don't think you ought to talk of any one who's so fond of you behind her back in that way--"

"Oh! I say just the same to her face. I'm always telling her these things and she always agrees and then's just as selfish as ever. That absurd little father of hers has spoilt her!"