If I stayed where I was, I must have gone mad."
"You are going to friends?" she asked.
He laughed softly.
"I have not a friend in the world," he said. "In London I do not know a
soul. What matter? There is life to be lived there, prizes to be won.
There is room for every one."
She half closed her eyes, watching him keenly all the time with an
interest which was certainly not diminished.
"London is a wonderful city," she said, "but she is not always kind to
the stranger. You have spoken of De Quincey who wove fairy fancies
about her, and Lamb, who was an affectionate stay-at-home, a born
dweller in cities. They were dreamers both, these men. What about
Chatterton?"
"An unhappy exception," he said. "If only he had lived a few months
longer his sorrows would have been over."
"To-day," she said, "there are many Chattertons who must die before the
world will listen to them. Are you going to take your place amongst
them?"
He smiled confidently.
"Not I," he answered. "I shall work with my hands if men will have none
of my brains. Indeed," he continued, turning towards her with a swift,
transfiguring smile, "I am not a village prodigy going to London with a
pocketful of manuscripts. Don't think that of me.
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