hard, but without much success; and what had been an ordinary good
opinion of himself had stiffened into a bitter self-assertion. He knew
very well that he was regarded as a conceited, quarrelsome fellow, and
rather gloried in it. The world, he considered, had so far treated him
ill; he would at any rate keep his individuality.

Phoebe, too, once so sweet, so docile, so receptive, had begun to be
critical, to resist him now and then. He knew that in some ways he had
disappointed her; and there was gall in the thought. As to the London
plan, his word would no longer be enough. He would have to wrestle
with and overcome her.

London!--the word chimed him from the past--threw wide the future. He
moved on along the rough road, possessed by dreams. He had a vision of
his first large picture; himself rubbing in the figures, life-size, or
at work on the endless studies for every part--fellow-students coming
to look, Academicians, buyers; he heard himself haranguing, plunging
headlong into ideas and theories, holding his own with the best
of 'the London chaps.' Between whiles, of course, there would be
hack-work--illustration--portraits--anything to keep the pot boiling.
And always, at the end of this vista, there was success--success great
and tangible.

He was amused by his own self-confidence, and laughed as he walked.
But his mood never wavered.

He _had_ the power--the gift. Nobody ever doubted that who saw him
draw. And he had, besides, what so many men of his own class made
shipwreck for want of--he had _imagination_--enough to show him what
it is that makes the mere craftsman into the artist, enough to make