He wandered off into the sculpture gallery, which, so far as the general and appreciative public were concerned, he found, as usual, a howling wilderness.
"I wonder what I could do to win her love?"
This was the question which that young man addressed to himself among those lonely statues.
"I wonder if it could be won? By me? If it is won already?"
As this last thought occurred to him he actually trembled, which showed that, as a young man, he was something out of the common.
"One thing is necessary, that I should not come to her a pauper. I don't want the tale of the Lord of Burleigh told in just one more new edition. I wonder if I could do something to make money?"
Mr. Philip Major had the first-floor apartments in a house in Stamford Street Mr. Thompson Gill had the ground-floor rooms. Thus chance, or necessity, had made the tipster and the artist acquainted.
That night Mr. Major entered Mr. Gill's sitting-room, an uninvited guest
"Well, Gill, old man, been doing anything more in the prophetic line?"
Mr. Gill, his hands in his trouser-pockets, was seated, staring into vacancy.
"Mr. Major"—he got up; with a mysterious air he approached his visitor—"I do believe there's something wrong."
"How wrong? Has the prophetic tap run dry?"
"I tell you straight, I wish it had run dry. It's quite upsetting me, that's what it's doing. What do you think of the Exmouth Stakes?"
"What about the Exmouth Stakes?"
