Having breakfasted, he stood idly at the window of his sitting-room.
His lodgings were in Upper Woburn Place, nearly opposite the church
of St. Pancras. He had read, he knew not where, that the crowning
portion of that remarkable edifice was modelled on the Temple of the
Winds at Athens, and, as he gazed at it this morning, he suffered
from the thought of his narrow experience in travel. A glimpse of
the Netherlands, of France, of Switzerland, was all he could boast.
His income had only just covered his expenditure; the holiday season
always found him more or less embarrassed, and unable to go far
afield. What Can one do on a paltry three hundred a year? Yet he
regretted that he had not used a stricter economy. He might have
managed in cheaper rooms; he might have done without this and the
other little luxury. To have travelled widely would now be of some
use to him; it gave a man a certain freedom in society, added an
octave to the compass of his discourse. Acquaintance with books did
not serve the same end; and, though he read a good deal, Dyce was
tolerably aware that not by force of erudition could he look for
advancement. He began to perceive it as a misfortune that he had not
earlier in life become clear as to the nature of his ambition. Until
a couple of years ago he had scarcely been conscious of any aim at
all, for the literary impulses which used to inspire his talk with
Connie Bride were merely such as stir in every youth of our time;
they had never got beyond talk, and, on fading away, left him
without intellectual motive. Now that he knew whither his desires
and his abilities tended, he was harassed by consciousness of
imperfect equipment. Even academically he had not distinguished
himself; he had made no attempt at journalism; he had not brought
himself into useful contact with any political group. All he could
claim for encouragement was a personal something which drew
attention, especially the attention of women, in circles of the