chimney-pots, pulsed with light--the very earthly light which, in great
cities, flares out when the light of heaven dies, to walk the streets,
with much else of doubtful loveliness, till it is shamed by the cold
chastity of dawn. And along with that outflaring, a certain meretricious
element introduced itself into the aspect of Trimmer's Green. Across the
roadway, the gaslamps showed cones of vivid yet sickly brightness,
bringing at regular intervals the sharply indented leaves of the plane
trees and the shivering silver of the balsam-poplars into an arresting
and artificial distinctness. Between were spaces of vacancy and gloom.
And from out such a space, immediately opposite, slowly emerged a
shambling and ungainly figure, in which Dominic Iglesias recognised the
third of his fellow-lodgers, Mr. de Courcy Smyth. His acquaintance with
the said lodger was of the slightest, since the latter had but recently
entered into residence and rarely appeared at meals. Mrs. Porcher
habitually referred to him with a pitying respect as "a gentleman very
influential in literary and professional circles, but unfortunate in his
married life"; ending with a sigh and upward glance of her still fine
eyes, as one who could sympathise, having herself been through that gate.
Influential or not, it occurred to Iglesias that the man presented a
sorry spectacle enough. For a minute or so he stood aimlessly in the full
glare of a gaslamp. His thin, creasy Inverness cape was thrown back,
displaying evening dress. He carried a soft grey felt hat in one hand.
His whole aspect was seedy, disappointed, dejected; his face pale and
puffy, his sparse reddish hair and beard but indifferently trimmed. It
was borne in upon Iglesias, moreover, that the man was hungry, that he
had not--and that for some time--had enough to eat. Voluntary poverty is
among the most beautiful, involuntary poverty among the ugliest, sights
upon earth; and to which order of poverty that of de Courcy Smyth
belonged, Mr. Iglesias was in no doubt. This was a sordid sight, a sight
of discouragement, adding the last touch to the melancholy which