Dr. Levillier and Julian drove together as far as the latter's
chambers that evening, and, after bidding Julian good-night, the doctor
dismissed the cab and set out to walk to Harley Street. He proceeded
at a leisurely pace along Piccadilly, threading his way abstractedly
among the wandering wisps of painted humanity that dye the London night
with rouge. Occasionally a passing man in evening dress would bid him
good-night, for he was universally known in the town. But he did not
reply. With his firm round chin pressed down upon his fur coat, and his
eyelids lowered, he moved thoughtfully. The problem of the relations
existing between youth and life eternally fascinated him. He pondered
over them now. What a strange, complicated _liaison_ it was, sometimes
so happy, sometimes so disastrous, always, to him, pathetic. Youth sets
up house with life as a lover sets up house with his mistress, takes an
attic near the stars, or builds a mansion that amazes the street-urchins.
And they dwell together. And youth strives in every way to know his
mistress. He tests her, tries her, kisses and cuffs her, gives her
presents, weeps at her knees. And at first she is magical, and a wonder,
and a dream, and eternity. And then, perhaps, she is a faded creature,
and terrible as a lost girl whom one has known in innocence.
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