a week. His disposition was the reverse of democratic, and he
could not make acquaintances below his own intellectual level.
Solitude fostered a sensitiveness which to begin with was
extreme; the lack of stated occupation encouraged his natural
tendency to dream and procrastinate and hope for the improbable.
He was a recluse in the midst of millions, and viewed with dread
the necessity of going forth to fight for daily food.

Little by little he had ceased to hold any correspondence with
his former friends at Hereford. The only person to whom he still
wrote and from whom he still heard was his mother's father--an
old man who lived at Derby, retired from the business of a
draper, and spending his last years pleasantly enough with a
daughter who had remained single. Edwin had always been a
favourite with his grandfather, though they had met only once or
twice during the past eight years. But in writing he did not
allow it to be understood that he was in actual want, and he felt
that he must come to dire extremities before he could bring
himself to beg assistance.

He had begun to answer advertisements, but the state of his
wardrobe forbade his applying for any but humble positions. Once
or twice he presented himself personally at offices, but his
reception was so mortifying that death by hunger seemed
preferable to a continuance of such experiences. The injury to
his pride made him savagely arrogant; for days after the last
rejection he hid himself in his garret, hating the world.

He sold his little collection of books, and of course they
brought only a trifling sum. That exhausted, he must begin to