“Mrs. Lobley has had an uphill fight since her first husband’s death,” said Mr. Haim.  “He was an insurance agent—­the Prudential.  She’s come out of it splendidly.  She’s always kept up her little home, though it was only two rooms, and she’ll only leave it because I can offer her a better one.  I have always admired her, and I’m sure the more you know her the more you’ll like her.  She’s a woman in a thousand, Mr. Cannon.”

“I expect she is,” George agreed feebly.  He could not think of anything to say.

“And I’m thankful I can offer her a better home.  I don’t mind telling you now that at one time I began to fear I shouldn’t have a home.  I’ve had my ambitions, Mr. Cannon.  I was meant for a quantity surveyor.  I was one—­you may say.  But it was not to be.  I came down in the world, but I kept my head above water.  And then in the end, with a little money I had I bought this house.  L575.  It needed some negotiation.  Ground-rent L10 per annum, and seventy years to run.  You see, all along I had had the idea of building a studio in the garden.  I was one of the first to see the commercial possibilities of studios in Chelsea.  But of course I know Chelsea.  I made the drawings for the studio myself.  Mr. Enwright kindly suggested a few improvements.  With all my experience I was in a position to get it put up as cheaply as possible.  You’d be surprised at the number of people in the building line anxious to oblige me.  It cost under L300.  I had to borrow most of it.  But I’ve paid it off.  What’s the consequence?  The consequence is that the rent of the studio and the top rooms brings me in over eight per cent on all I spent on the house and the studio together.  And I’m living rent free myself.”

“Jolly good!”

“Yes....  If I’d had capital, Mr. Cannon, I could have made thousands out of studios.  Thousands.  I fancy I’ve the gift.  But I’ve never had the capital.  And that’s all there is to it.”  He smacked his lips, and leaned back against the mantelpiece.  “You may tell me I’ve realized my ambitions.  Not all of them, Mr. Cannon.  Not all of them.  If I’d had money I should have had leisure, and I should have improved myself.  Reading, I mean.  Study.  Literature.  Music.  Painting.  History of architecture.  All that sort of thing.  I’ve got the taste for it.  I know I’ve got the taste for it.  But what could I do?  I gave it up.  You’ll never know how lucky you are, Mr. Cannon.  I gave it up.  However, I’ve nothing to be ashamed of.  At any rate I hope not.”

George nodded appreciatively.  He was touched.  He was even impressed.  He admitted the naivete of the ageing man, his vanity, his sentimentality.  But he saw himself to be in the presence of an achievement.  And though the crown of Mr. Haim’s achievement was to marry a charwoman, still the achievement impressed.  And the shabby man with the lined, common face was looking back at the whole of his life—­there was something positively formidable in that alone.  He was at the end; George was at the beginning, and George felt callow and deferential.  The sensation of callowness at once heightened his resolve to succeed.  All George’s sensations seemed mysteriously to transform themselves into food for this great resolve.