sluggish and the hand slow, Goldthorpe saw how two or three energetic
spiders had begun to spin webs once more at the corners of the ceiling; now
and then he heard the long buzzing of a fly entangled in one of these webs.
The same thing was happening in Mr. Spicer's chamber. It did not seem worth
while to brush the new webs away.

'When you come to think of it, sir,' said the landlord, 'it's the spiders
who are the real owners of these houses. When I go away, they'll be pulled
down; they're not fit for human habitation. Only the spiders are really at
home here, and the fact is, sir, I don't feel I have the right to disturb
them. As a man of imagination, Mr. Goldthorpe, you'll understand my
thoughts!'

Only with a great effort was the novel finished. Goldthorpe had lost his
appetite (not, perhaps, altogether a disadvantage), and he could not sleep;
a slight fever seemed to be constantly upon him. But this work was a
question of life and death to him, and he brought it to an end only a few
days after the term he had set himself. The complete manuscript was
exhibited to Mr. Spicer, who expressed his profound sense of the privilege.
Then, without delay, Goldthorpe took it to the publishing house in which he
had most hope.

The young author could now do nothing but wait, and, under the
circumstances, waiting meant torture. His money was all but exhausted; if
he could not speedily sell the book, his position would be that of a mere
pauper. Supported thus long by the artist's enthusiasm, he fell into
despondency, saw the dark side of things. To be sure, his mother (a widow
in narrow circumstances) had written pressing him to take a holiday 'at
home,' but he dreaded the thought of going penniless to his mother's house,
and there, perchance, receiving bad news about his book. An ugly feature of