troubadour. He was never the same; that was his strength. Clarke's
style possessed at once the chiselled chasteness of a Greek marble
column and the elaborate deviltry of the late Renaissance. At times his
winged words seemed to flutter down the page frantically like Baroque
angels; at other times nothing could have more adequately described his
manner than the timeless calm of the gaunt pyramids.

The two men had reached the street. Reginald wrapped his long spring
coat round him.

"I shall expect you to-morrow at four," he said.

The tone of his voice was deep and melodious, suggesting hidden depths
and cadences.

"I shall be punctual."

The younger man's voice trembled as he spoke.

"I look forward to your coming with much pleasure. I am interested in
you."

The glad blood mounted to Ernest's cheeks at praise from the austere
lips of this arbiter of literary elegance.

An almost imperceptible smile crept over the other man's features.

"I am proud that my work interests you," was all the boy could say.

"I think it is quite amazing, but at present," here Clarke drew out a