We were passing the house that used to belong to that strange book-lover and recluse, Beckford.

I looked up at the blank windows, and thought of that curious, self-centred life in the past, surrounded by every luxury, able to indulge every whim; and then I looked at my companion's pale, tortured face, and thought of the life he had elected to lead in the hope of saving one whom duty bound him to honour.

After all, which life was the most worth living--which was the most to be admired?
We walked on; down below us and up on the farther hill we could see the lights of Bath; the place so beautiful by day looked now like a fairy city, and the Abbey, looming up against the moon-lit sky, seemed like some great giant keeping watch over the clustering roofs below.

The well-known chimes rang out into the night and the clock struck ten.
"I must go back," said Derrick, quietly.

"My father will want to get to bed." I couldn't say a word; we turned, passed Beckford's house once more, walked briskly down the hill, and reached the Gay Street lodging-house.
I remember the stifling heat of the room as we entered it, and its contrast to the cool, dark, winter's night outside.