bring forth his books again, he was seized with such utter
discouragement that he let a volume drop from his hand and threw himself into a
seat. A moan escaped his lips - »That cursed money!«
    Ever since the disclosure made to him by Michael Snowdon at Danbury he had
been sensible of a grave uneasiness respecting his relations with Jane. At the
moment he might imagine himself to share the old man's enthusiasm, or dream, or
craze - whichever name were the most appropriate - but not an hour had passed
before he began to lament that such a romance as this should envelop the life
which had so linked itself with his own. Immediately there arose in him a
struggle between the idealist tendency, of which he had his share, and stubborn
everyday sense, supported by his knowledge of the world and of his own being - a
struggle to continue for months, thwarting the natural current of his life,
racking his intellect, embittering his heart's truest emotions. Conscious of
mystery in Snowdon's affairs, he had never dreamed of such a solution as this;
the probability was - so he had thought - that Michael received an annuity under
the will of his son who died in Australia. No word of the old man's had ever
hinted at wealth in his possession; the complaints he frequently made of the ill
use to which wealthy people put their means seemed to imply a regret that he,
with his purer purposes, had no power of doing anything. There was no explaining
the manner of Jane's bringing-up if it were not necessary that she should be
able to support herself; the idea on which Michael acted was not such as would
suggest itself, even to Sidney's mind. Deliberately to withhold education from a
girl who was to inherit any property worth speaking of would be acting with such
boldness of originality that Sidney could not seriously have attributed it to
his friend. In fact, he did not know Michael until the revelation was made; the
depths of the man's character escaped him.
    The struggle went all against idealism. It was a noble vision, that of
Michael's, but too certainly Jane Snowdon was not the person to make it a
reality; the fearful danger was, that all the possibilities of her life might be
sacrificed to a vain conscientiousness. Her character was full of purity and
sweetness and self-forgetful warmth, but it had not the strength necessary for
the carrying out of a purpose beset with difficulties and perils. Michael, it
was true, appeared to be aware of this; it did