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fellows his heart sank. He had expected wonderful things
from London and it had given him nothing. He hated it now.
He did not know a soul, and he had no idea how he was to get
to know anyone. He was tired of going everywhere by him-
self. He began to feel that he could not stand much more of
such a life. He would lie in bed at night and think of the joy
of never seeing again that dingy office or any of the men in it,
and of getting away from those drab lodgings.
A great disappointment befell him in the spring. Hayward
had announced his intention of coming to London for the
season, and Philip had looked forward very much to seeing
him again. He had read so much lately and thought so much
that his mind was full of ideas which he wanted to discuss,
and he knew nobody who was willing to interest himself
in abstract things. He was quite excited at the thought of
talking his fill with someone, and he was wretched when
Hayward wrote to say that the spring was lovelier than ever
he had known it in Italy, and he could not bear to tear him-
self away. He went on to ask why Philip did not come. What
was the use of squandering the days of his youth in an office
when the world was beautiful? The letter proceeded.
I wonder you can bear it. I think of Fleet Street and Lin-
coln’s Inn now with a shudder of disgust. There are only two
things in the world that make life worth living, love and art.
I cannot imagine you sitting in an office over a ledger, and
do you wear a tall hat and an umbrella and a little black bag?
My feeling is that one should look upon life as an adven-
ture, one should burn with the hard, gem-like flame, and
one should take risks, one should expose oneself to danger.