"Well, Gilbert, I know that good advice is generally thrown away in such
a case as this; but I have a fixed opinion on the subject. To my mind,
there is only one wise course open to you, and that is, to let this thing
alone, and resign yourself to the inevitable. I acknowledge that Miss
Nowell was eminently worthy of your affection; but you know the old
song--'If she be not fair to me, what care I how fair she be.' There are
plenty of women in the world. The choice is wide enough."

"Not for me, John. Marian Nowell is the only woman I have ever loved, the
only woman I ever can love."

"My dear boy, it is so natural for you to believe that just now; and a
year hence you will think so differently!"

"No, John. But I am not going to mate any protestations of my constancy.
Let the matter rest. I knew that my life is broken--that this blow has
left me nothing to hope for or to live for, except the hope of finding
the girl who has wronged me. I won't weary you with lamentations. My talk
has been entirely of self since I came into this room. Tell me your own
affairs, Jack, old friend. How has the world gone with you since we
parted at Liverpool last year?"

"Not too smoothly. My financial position becomes a little more obscure
and difficult of comprehension every year, as you know; but I rub on
somehow. I have been working at literature like a galley-slave; have
contributed no end of stuff to the Quarterlies; and am engaged upon a
book,--yes Gil, positively a book,--which I hope may do great things for
me if ever I can finish it."

"Is it a novel?"