imagination they were fingering a rope of pearls.

Buried in the depth of a great arm-chair lay the form of a giant of a man who had listened to the conversation with a sleepy smile. At this point a yawn overcame him; he struggled with it, only to find himself entangled in a second.

“I say,” he drawled lazily, “what about bed? Doesn’t that strike you as about the most sensible proposition for the moment? I know this dissatisfied feeling. No New Year’s gathering is complete without it. Best thing to get to sleep as soon as possible, and start afresh next day. Things look better after coffee and bacon. What’s the use of grizzling? If we can’t have what we want, let us like what we can get. Eh? It’s pretty certain we’ll never get what we want.”

“Are you so sure of that?” asked a quiet voice. The hostess sat erect in her seat, her graceful head with its silvering hair silhouetted against the wall. She looked round the circle of her guests, and smiled, a fine, delicate smile. “When you make that statement, Frank, you are contradicting flatly all the premises of modern thought. The time has passed for sitting still and lamenting the impossible. The time is past for calling anything impossible. The thing that a man strives for—deeply, strongly, persistently—that thing he can hovel That is the theory held by many great thinkers of to-day. And it is true.”

There was silence for a moment, while everyone looked questioningly at the figure of the speaker. The man with the tired eyes asked a question:

“I suppose that applies to women as well as to men! Have you proved it, Mrs Ingram?”

“I have proved it,” answered the quiet voice. The host leaned forward, and knocked the ash of his cigarette into the grate. His face was hidden from view. Mrs Ingram looked round with a sudden, challenging smile. “Why don’t you all prove it?” she cried. “Why don’t you all start forth on this year with an aim in view? I don’t say you will gain it in one year, or in two, or possibly in a dozen; but if you care enough to go on trying, it will be gained! It’s a question of one big aim instead of a dozen. The lesser things must go; you must become a man, a woman, of one idea. There are other things which are good and pleasant and alluring, but they must be set aside as weights which would hamper the chase. You cannot have the one big thing—and everything else! Therefore it is well to ask oneself seriously at the beginning—Is it worth while?”

Once more the guests were silent, staring into the heart of the fire. That last question, uttered in a deep, grave tone, had called to the bar those inner voices which had so long breathed envy and discontent. Each listener examined his own motives, and knew a chill of doubt, but the chill passed, and the conviction remained. Each one felt convinced that life held no good outside the coveted goal.

The silence gave assent, as Mrs Ingram realised without need of further words.

“Suppose,” she said gently, “you make me your father confessor to-night, and confess your various aims and ambitions? It is the sort of confession appropriate to a New Year’s dawn, and perhaps the very putting into words will vitalise your dreams and take them the first step towards becoming realities. You must all confess, remember! There must be no holding back; if one begins the rest must follow, and after the confessions have been made, we must pledge ourselves to help each other towards our separate goals, if not by material aids, by reinforcing his will with our own!”

The girl in blue laughed lightly, and cried: “Oh, let’s! Let’s all confess, and then, years afterwards, when we are old, and wear transformations, we’ll meet again, at the dying of the year, and sit round the Yule log, and tell the stories of our lives. And if we have failed, we will weep salt tears of disappointment; and if we have succeeded, we’ll weep more, because it’s all hollow and stuffed with bran, and we’ll make pious reflections, and sigh: ‘Oh, me! Oh, my!’ and preach sermons to the youngsters, and they won’t believe a word. And so it will all begin over again. Juliet, you set the ball rolling, by speaking of ruts. You ought to be the first to confess. What is the secret longing of your heart?”

The dark girl showed no sign of embarrassment at being chosen to lead the way. There was no sign of shrinking or hesitation upon her face; on the contrary, at the sound of that penetrating question, the careless smile died away, and her features seemed suddenly to glow with life.

“Adventure!” she cried quickly. “Give me that, and, for good or ill, I shall be satisfied. Fate made me with a vagrant’s heart shut up in a woman’s body, and for twenty-four years it’s been fed on monotony in a country parish. Since I left the schoolroom I’ve never had a real experience of my own. I’ve had trivial pleasures, never one real big joy; never”—she looked slowly, thoughtfully, from face to face—“never a grief! There’s something here”—she laid her hand on her heart—“fighting to get out! The ordinary, quiet, comfortable life would not content it. It wants more. It wants happenings, changes, excitement—it wants the big world, and I am a prisoner in the castle of convention. Mrs Ingram, how does your prophecy apply to me? How am I to get out?”

“No prison is so strong that it cannot be pulled down, Juliet. The walls of Jericho fell at the sound of the trumpet. But you must discover your own trumpet, and the walls won’t fall at the first flourish,” said Mrs Ingram, and then suddenly and incontinently she added: “Poor child!”

“Just so! Miss Juliet will certainly be one of those who will sigh: ‘Woe’s me!’ at our future merry meeting,” cried the tall man with the hawklike features, “and it’s rough on her, too, for she’s so touchingly modest in her desire. Doesn’t care a pin apparently whether she comes out better or worse! Now, for my own part, that’s all I do care for. Success! Success! that’s my mania: forging ahead, gaining on my opponents, winning the lead. Adventure doesn’t count. I’d sit at an office desk for fourteen hours out of the twenty-four, for fourteen years at a stretch, if it ensured success at the end—a big success, a success which left me head and shoulders above the ruck. I’d walk the world barefooted from one end to the other to gain a secret that was worth while. Success is my god. To gain it I would sacrifice everything else.”

“Then, of a certainty, it can be yours,” said Mrs Ingram quietly, and she looked at him with such a gentle glance that he asked her a laughing question: “Are you going to call me ‘poor child!’ too?”

“Not yet,” she said quietly. Then she turned to the big man, and laid a hand on his arm. “You next, Frank?”

“Oh, well!” he laughed good-humouredly yet with a tinge of embarrassment. “I didn’t bargain for this confession business, but since it’s the rule, I must follow suit, I suppose. I’m a commonplace beggar! I’m pretty well content with things as they come. I’m not keen on any adventures that I know of; if I can have enough to be comfortable, that’s all I want. I’d like a nice wife, and a house with a bit of garden; and a youngster or two, and a runabout car, don’t you know, and the usual accessories! That’s about all I fancy. ‘Man wants but little here below.’”

“Frank plumps for comfort,” said Mrs Ingram, smiling. “His programme sounds distinctly restful, for a change. Take care of your figure, Frank! I should suggest mowing the garden as a helpful recreation. Next, please! Claudia!”

“Oh, money, please!” cried Claudia eagerly. “Lots of money, and a safe full of jewels. Do you know, I dress on forty pounds a year all told, and a rich cousin sends me cast-offs! I take them hungrily, but I hate her for it, and when I’m a millionaire I’ll cut her