another's life, at least. I say I envy you. You have Youth, unconquerable
Youth, and the world before you.... I must go."

He rose stiffly, as though suddenly made conscious of his age. The old eyes
peered more than a trifle wistfully, now, into Kirkwood's. "You will not
fail to call on me by cable, dear boy, if you need--anything? I ask it as
a favor.... I'm glad you wished to see me before going out of my life. One
learns to value the friendship of Youth, Philip. Good-by, and good luck
attend you."

Alone once more, Kirkwood returned to his window. The disappointment he
felt at being robbed of his anticipated pleasure in Brentwick's company at
dinner, colored his mood unpleasantly. His musings merged into vacuity,
into a dull gray mist of hopelessness comparable only to the dismal skies
then lowering over London-town.

Brentwick was good, but Brentwick was mistaken. There was really nothing
for Kirkwood to do but to go ahead. But one steamer-trunk remained to be
packed; the boat-train would leave before midnight, the steamer with the
morning tide; by the morrow's noon he would be upon the high seas, within
ten days in New York and among friends; and then ...

The problem of that afterwards perplexed Kirkwood more than he cared to
own. Brentwick had opened his eyes to the fact that he would be practically
useless in San Francisco; he could not harbor the thought of going
back, only to become a charge upon Vanderlip. No; he was resolved that
thenceforward he must rely upon himself, carve out his own destiny.
But--would the art that he had cultivated with such assiduity, yield him a
livelihood if sincerely practised with that end in view? Would the mental
and physical equipment of a painter, heretofore dilettante, enable him to