less exquisite taste than the Elizabethan, his own personality under the splendid raiment of his art. They certainly were affinities. It would not have been surprising to him to see the clear calm head of Shakespeare rise from behind his host.

Perhaps — who knows? — the very presence of the bust in his room had, to some extent, subtly and secretly moulded Reginald Clarke’s life. A man’s soul, like the chameleon, takes colour from its environment. Even comparative trifles, the number of the house in which we live, or the colour of the wallpaper of a room, may determine a destiny.

The boy’s eyes were again surveying the fantastic surroundings in which he found himself; while, from a corner, Clarke’s eyes were watching his every movement, as if to follow