down in front of the abode of Reginald Clarke, a s

marge the restlessness and the fever of American life. But the bustl

His young and delicate soul found it difficult to grapple with the vague fears that his nervous brain engende

s, where his poet's soul was wont to linger overlong; in his hours of weakness the light c

to Clarke, as a worshipper scattering precious s

f its desire, while multicoloured dreams, like dancing-girls, lull the will to sleep, h

trike the electric bell when a sound

ard Clarke say. His voice ha

distinctly hear, but the suppressed sob in them almost brought the tears t

to be a witness of an interview

his young friend, whom Ernest surmised to be Abel Felton,

a momentary sil

: "It will come again, in a mo

s all gone!"

at is just why we must part. There is no

a nervous wreck

fancies, your extravagance, the slow

. Everything is so puzzling-life, friendship, you. I fancied you ca

ollow the law

within us and

e physiological structure of our brains, ou

hip was so beautiful.

ei. We are all but sojourners in an inn. Friendship, as love, is an

othing to

aid go

or Ernest

you going

ttle plea

w that the

some book, a play or a novel. It occurred to h

adly. "I am n

writi

inal

d I don't u

d. Some da