 It was a parlour
on the second floor of a lodging-house in Chelsea; Scawthorne's graceful person
and professional bearing were out of place amid the trivial appointments. He
lived here for the simple reason that in order to enjoy a few of the luxuries of
civilisation he had to spend as little as possible on bare necessaries. His
habits away from home were those of a man to whom a few pounds are no serious
consideration; his pleasant dinner at the restaurant, his occasional stall at a
theatre, his easy acquaintance with easy livers of various kinds, had become
indispensable to him, and as a matter of course his expenditure increased
although his income kept at the same figure. That figure was not contemptible,
regard had to the path by which he had come thus far; Mr. Percival esteemed his
abilities highly, and behaved to him with generosity. Ten years ago Scawthorne
would have lost his senses with joy at the prospect of such a salary; to-day he
found it miserably insufficient to the demands he made upon life. Paltry debts
harassed him; inabilities fretted his temperament and his pride; it irked him to
have no better abode than this musty corner to which he could never invite an
acquaintance. And then, notwithstanding his mental endowments, his keen social
sense, his native tact, in all London not one refined home was open to him, not
one domestic circle of educated people could he approach and find a welcome.
    Scawthorne was passing out of the stage when a man seeks only the
gratification of his propensities; he began to focus his outlook upon the world,
and to feel the significance of maturity. The double existence he was compelled
to lead - that of a laborious and clear-brained man of business in office hours,
that of a hungry rascal in the time which was his own - not only impressed him
with a sense of danger, but made him profoundly dissatisfied with the unreality
of what he called his enjoyments. What, he asked himself, had condemned him to
this kind of career? Simply the weight under which he started, his poor origin,
his miserable youth. However carefully regulated his private life had been, his
position to-day could not have been other than it was; no degree of purity would
have opened to him the door of a civilised house. Suppose he had wished to
marry; where, pray, was he to find his wife? A barmaid? Why, yes, other men of
his standing wedded barmaids and girls from the houses of business, and so on;
but they had neither his tastes nor his brains
