THE LAST ARABIAN NIGHT 529

do? A bit of typing and clerking, that xvas all, and any-
body could do that; even girls could do it; some of them,
really educated ones like Miss Matfield (yes, and what
had she been doing with Mr. Golspie?), just as well as
he could. And when he had queued up and looked at
advertisements and written letters and trailed round and
waited and got a job at last, what then? What would he
get out of it? Nothing. He saw the world before him
with no happiness in it, only foolish work and weariness
and unnamed fears, a place of jagged stones? shadows,
dim menacing giants.

Having got so far, he could go no farther. A little
voice, like that of some tiny erect indignant figure in a
great gloomy assembly, spoke up now, protesting. It was
not right. It was not fair. There had been a time when
it had looked as if everything was going to be quite
different. Something had gone wrong. Where, how had
it gone wrong? He could be happy; he could be as happy
as anybody, if only he had a chance to be; and why
hadn't he a chance to be? Here!—if he'd a chance, he
could be a lot happier than Park or Smeeth or even Mr.
Dersingham-yes, he could! Then why shouldn't he be?
What was wrong? What was it, what was it? The little
voice asked these questions, but no answer came. No
answer. It was as if the erect figure suddenly collapsed
and the gloomy assembly untroubled, unstirring.

It was no good. Every bit of him, from the damp
soles of his feet to his tangled hair (which seemed to have
a separate and equally miserable existence of its own,
this night), agreed that it was no good. He stood up.
He looked about him, as if searching the little room in
despair for something to touch, to hold, to cling to, now
that the night was pouring in, through the decayed wood-