shield of Pallas, and shown him the Gorgon's head. He seemed turned
to stone, and his face was like marble in its melancholy. He had
lived the delicate and luxurious life of a young man of birth and
fortune, a life exquisite in its freedom from sordid care, its
beautiful boyish insouciance; and now for the first time he became
conscious of the terrible mystery of Destiny, of the awful meaning
of Doom.

How mad and monstrous it all seemed! Could it be that written on
his hand, in characters that he could not read himself, but that
another could decipher, was some fearful secret of sin, some blood-
red sign of crime? Was there no escape possible? Were we no better
than chessmen, moved by an unseen power, vessels the potter fashions
at his fancy, for honour or for shame? His reason revolted against
it, and yet he felt that some tragedy was hanging over him, and that
he had been suddenly called upon to bear an intolerable burden.
Actors are so fortunate. They can choose whether they will appear
in tragedy or in comedy, whether they will suffer or make merry,
laugh or shed tears. But in real life it is different. Most men
and women are forced to perform parts for which they have no
qualifications. Our Guildensterns play Hamlet for us, and our
Hamlets have to jest like Prince Hal. The world is a stage, but the
play is badly cast.

Suddenly Mr. Podgers entered the room. When he saw Lord Arthur he
started, and his coarse, fat face became a sort of greenish-yellow
colour. The two men's eyes met, and for a moment there was silence.

'The Duchess has left one of her gloves here, Lord Arthur, and has
asked me to bring it to her,' said Mr. Podgers finally. 'Ah, I see