"How? You surprise me."

Avenel first explained about the patent which Leonard had secured to him;
and next confided, upon honour, Leonard's identity with the anonymous
author whom the parson had supposed to be Professor Moss.

Randal Leslie felt a jealous pang. What! then--had this village boy,
this associate of John Burley (literary vagabond, whom he supposed had
long since gone to the dogs, and been buried at the expense of the
parish)--had this boy so triumphed over birth, rearing, circumstance,
that, if Randal and Leonard had met together in any public place, and
Leonard's identity with the rising author had been revealed, every eye
would have turned from Randal to gaze on Leonard? The common consent of
mankind would have acknowledged the supreme royalty of genius when it
once leaves its solitude, and strides into the world. What! was this
rude villager the child of Fame, who, without an effort, and
unconsciously, had inspired in the wearied heart of Beatrice di Negra a
love that Randal knew, by an instinct, no arts, no craft, could ever
create for him in the heart of woman? And now, did this same youth stand
on the same level in the ascent to power as he, the well-born Randal
Leslie, the accomplished protege of the superb Audley Egerton? Were they
to be rivals in the same arena of practical busy life? Randal gnawed his
quivering lip.

All the while, however, the young man whom he so envied was a prey to
sorrows deeper far than could ever find room or footing in the narrow and
stony heart of the unloving schemer.

As Leonard walked through the crowded streets with the friend and monitor