And as in an artist who strives for the unrealisable and is ever thirsty, so there rose in him at that moment the thirst of the old passion he had never satisfied.
"Well," he said calmly, "you're young.

There's everything before you." Annette shook her head.
"I think sometimes there is nothing before me but hard work.

I am not so in love with work as mother." "Your mother is a wonder," said Soames, faintly mocking; "she will never let failure lodge in her house." Annette sighed.

"It must be wonderful to be rich." "Oh! You'll be rich some day," answered Soames, still with that faint mockery; "don't be afraid." Annette shrugged her shoulders.

"Monsieur is very kind." And between her pouting lips she put a chocolate.
'Yes, my dear,' thought Soames, 'they're very pretty.' Madame Lamotte, with coffee and liqueur, put an end to that colloquy.
Soames did not stay long.
Outside in the streets of Soho, which always gave him such a feeling of property improperly owned, he mused.