It had pleased me then; but, now that she smiled thus past me--it was not quite at me--in the crooked highways of the town, I was irritated.

After all, I was somebody; I was not a cathedral verger.

I had a fancy for myself in those days--a fancy that solitude and brooding had crystallised into a habit of mind.

I was a writer with high--with the highest--ideals.

I had withdrawn myself from the world, lived isolated, hidden in the countryside, lived as hermits do, on the hope of one day doing something--of putting greatness on paper.