But where have you been, Dyson? I don’t think I can have seen you for the last five years?”

“No; I dare say not. You remember I was getting rather hard up when you came to my place at Charlotte Street?”

“Perfectly. I think I remember your telling me that you owed five weeks’ rent, and that you had parted with your watch for a comparatively small sum.”

“My dear Salisbury, your memory is admirable. Yes, I was hard up. But the curious thing is that soon after you saw me I became harder up. My financial state was described by a friend as ‘stone broke.’ I don’t approve of slang, mind you, but such was my condition. But suppose we go in; there might be other people who would like to dine—it’s a human weakness, Salisbury.”

“Certainly; come along. I was wondering as I walked down whether the corner table were taken. It has a velvet back you know.”

“I know the spot; it’s vacant. Yes, as I was saying, I became even harder up.”

“What did you do then?” asked Salisbury, disposing of his hat, and settling down in the corner of the seat, with a glance of fond anticipation at the menu.

“What did I do? Why, I sat down and reflected. I had a good classical education, and a positive distaste for business of any kind: that was the capital with which I faced the world. Do you know, I have heard people describe olives as nasty! What lamentable Philistinism! I have often thought, Salisbury, that I could write genuine poetry under the influence of olives and red wine. Let us have Chianti; it may not be very good, but the flasks are simply charming.”

“It is pretty good here. We may as well have a big flask.”

“Very good. I reflected, then, on my want of prospects, and I determined to embark in literature.”

“Really; that was strange. You seem in pretty comfortable circumstances, though.”

“Though! What a satire upon a noble profession. I am afraid, Salisbury, you haven’t a proper idea of the dignity of an artist. You see me sitting at my desk—or at least you can see me if you care to call—with pen and ink, and simple nothingness before me, and if you come again in a few hours you will (in all probability) find a creation!”

“Yes, quite so. I had an idea that literature was not remunerative.”

“You are mistaken; its rewards are great. I may mention, by the way, that shortly after you saw me I succeeded to a small income. An uncle died, and proved unexpectedly generous.”

“Ah, I see. That must have been convenient.”

“It was pleasant—undeniably pleasant. I have always considered it in the light of an endowment of my researches. I told you I was a man of letters; it would, perhaps, be more correct to describe myself as a man of science.”

“Dear me, Dyson, you have really changed very much in the last few years. I had a notion, don’t you know, that you were a sort of idler about town, the kind of man one might meet on the north side of Piccadilly every day from May to July.”

“Exactly. I was even then forming myself, though all unconsciously. You know my poor father could not afford to send me to the University. I used to grumble in my ignorance at not having completed my education. That was the folly of youth, Salisbury; my University was Piccadilly. There I began to study the great science which still occupies me.”

“What science do you mean?”

“The science of the great city; the physiology of London; literally and metaphysically the greatest subject that the mind of man can conceive.