of modern life, and for some years strove to get it acted, but in
vain; finally it appeared 'for the closet'--giving Clement Fadge
such an opportunity as he seldom enjoyed. The one noteworthy
thing about these productions, and about others of equally
mistaken direction, was the sincerity of their workmanship. Had
Yule been content to manufacture a novel or a play with due
disregard for literary honour, he might perchance have made a
mercantile success; but the poor fellow had not pliancy enough
for this. He took his efforts au grand serieux; thought he was
producing works of art; pursued his ambition in a spirit of
fierce conscientiousness. In spite of all, he remained only a
journeyman. The kind of work he did best was poorly paid, and
could bring no fame. At the age of fifty he was still living in a
poor house in an obscure quarter. He earned enough for his actual
needs, and was under no pressing fear for the morrow, so long as
his faculties remained unimpaired; but there was no disguising
from himself that his life had been a failure. And the thought
tormented him.

Now there had come unexpectedly a gleam of hope. If indeed, the
man Rackett thought of offering him the editorship of The Study
he might even yet taste the triumphs for which he had so
vehemently longed. The Study was a weekly paper of fair repute.
Fadge had harmed it, no doubt of that, by giving it a tone which
did not suit the majority of its readers--serious people, who
thought that the criticism of contemporary writing offered an
opportunity for something better than a display of malevolent
wit. But a return to the old earnestness would doubtless set all
right again. And the joy of sitting in that dictatorial chair!
The delight of having his own organ once more, of making himself