“And are you dreaming of becoming the lyric mouth of the city, of giving utterance to all its yearnings, its ‘dreams in iron and its thoughts of stone’?”

“No,” replied Ernest, simply, “not yet. It is strange to what impressions the brain will respond. In Clarke’s house, in the midst of inspiring things, inspiration failed me. But while I was with that girl an idea came to me — an idea, big, real.”

“Will it deal with her?”

Ernest smiled: “Oh, no. She personally has nothing to do with it. At least not directly. It was the commotion of blood and — brain. The air — the change. I don’t know what.”

“What will it be?” asked Jack, with interest all alert.