Modern life was repudiated.

Great play was made with the professional title, and Leeds as a seat of learning was laughed to scorn.

And the extraordinary thing was that these young men were perfectly right--extraordinary, because, even as Jacob copied his pages, he knew that no one would ever print them; and sure enough back they came from the Fortnightly, the Contemporary, the Nineteenth Century--when Jacob threw them into the black wooden box where he kept his mother's letters, his old flannel trousers, and a note or two with the Cornish postmark.

The lid shut upon the truth.
This black wooden box, upon which his name was still legible in white paint, stood between the long windows of the sitting-room.

The street ran beneath.