“Because I am absurdly sensitive. It is pain to me to hear you speak as you would to any one whom you had asked out of mere politeness. I think I had rather not see you at all than in that way.”

She laughed lightly.

“But isn’t it enough to know what there is beneath my outward manner?”

“I know it, but–”

“But—your faith in me is so weak. Why cannot you trust me more?”

He was silent.

“You must get rid of these weaknesses. It all comes of your living so much alone. Besides, I want you particularly to come and dine with me on Sunday. Mr. Meres will be here, and I should like you to know him. I shouldn’t wonder if he can be useful to you.”

Kingcote made a gesture of impatience.

“But you won’t refuse, if I wish it? He is the most delightful man, and such an old friend of mine.”

“The less reason why I should like him.”

“Now, Bernard, this is foolish. Are you going to be jealous of every one I know? Oh, what a terrible time is before you!”

She said the words with mirthful mockery, and to Kingcote they were like a sudden stab. It was as though a future of dreadful things had suddenly been opened before his eyes, black, yawning, thronged with the shapes of midnight agonies. Her laugh had a taunting cruelty; her very eyes looked relentless. In this moment he feared her.

She was sitting some little distance away, and could not let him feel the touch of her hand which would have soothed.

“Have you told your sister?” she asked, after regarding him for a moment.

He found it difficult to answer truthfully, but could not do otherwise. He admitted that he had.

“I knew you would,” she returned, with a nod and an ambiguous smile. “And your friend, Gabriel?”

“No. I told you I should not. My sister is different.”

“Yes. Why should you not tell her? And you showed her my portrait?”

“I did.”

“What did she say?”

“Many kind and pleasant things—things you would have liked to hear.”

“Are you sure of that?”

“You don’t dislike to be praised.”

“No, on the whole I think not. But I could do with the praises of just one person—they would be enough.”

“I may repeat your question—are you sure of that?”

“Very sure. But you will come on Sunday?”

“At what time? I thought you went to church.”

“Only in the morning. We shall dine at eight o’clock.”

“And will there only be Mr. Meres?”

“Only one other—a lady.”

Kingcote looked about him restlessly.

“How long shall you stay in London?” was his next question.

“Not more than two months, I think.”

“Two months—May, June. It will seem long.”

“Long? Seem long to you?”

“Yes.”

“Are you not glad that I am nearer to you?”

“Very glad. But I wish it were November, with no one else in town, I suppose you will be surrounded with people all the time.”

“No, I shall see very few,” she answered, rather coldly. “I should wish, if I can, to please you.”

There was a struggle in him between obstinate jealousy and self-denial. She looked at him, with a half-suppressed smile about her lips, and the nobler feeling for the moment had its way.

“You will best please me,” he said, with the old tenderness, “by pleasing yourself. You shall see nothing of my foolishness, even if I can’t altogether overcome it; and I will try my hardest to do that, for my own peace indeed. I will bury myself in books.”

Isabel was seeking for words to express what was in her mind.

“You see,” she began at length, “I can’t entirely isolate myself, even if I would. People find out that I am in town, and I cannot forbid them to come and see me. If they come, then I am bound to make calls in return, or to accept invitations.”

“Yes, I understand it perfectly well,” he assented, with a little too much of readiness. “It would be monstrous to ask you to live in solitude. Indeed, I will accept it all without murmuring.”

“All that I can do I will. I promise you not to seek new acquaintances, and I will see no more of the old than I am absolutely obliged. You can trust me so far? It is rather hard to feel that you have not complete confidence in me. I have in you.”

“Forgive me, and let us forget that I ever talked so unkindly. I ought to be proud of your successes in society. It would all be easier, I suppose, if–”

“If what?”

“Only if I valued myself more highly than I can. It is so hard to believe that you can compare me with others and not grow very cold.”

“I should never think of comparing you with any one. Why should I? You are apart from all others; I should as soon think of asking whether the sun did really give more light than one or other of the stars.”

She would not have used such a comparison in the days before his letters had revealed to her a gospel of passion. His pleasure in hearing the words was mitigated by a critical sense that she had the turn of thought from himself, that it did not come from the fountains of her heart. Few men surpassed Bernard Kingcote in ingenious refinement of self-torture. His faculty in that respect grew daily.

“Is any one likely to call this afternoon?” he asked, when they had sat together a little longer.

“I don’t expect any one in particular, but it is quite possible.”

“Then I will leave you now.”

Isabel did not oppose his going.

“Oh,” she said, as a thought struck her, “Rhoda and Hilda Meres are going to lunch with me to-morrow, and perhaps Ada, though I don’t know whether she will come. In the afternoon I dare say we shall go to the Academy. Will you be there, and show us Gabriel’s pictures?”

He gave a hesitating “Yes.”

“Not unless you would like to. Be in the first room about half-past three.”

CHAPTER IX

Gabriel’s “Market Night” was well hung, and kept a crowd about it through the day. Prelates, plutocrats, and even the British baby appeared on the whole to be less attractive. Setting aside landscapes, which we paint with understanding, our Exhibition cannot often boast of more than a couple of pictures which invite to a second examination on disinterested grounds; this of the unknown painter addressed itself successfully both to the vulgar and to the cultured. Its technical qualities were held to be high. Some people made a sermon of it,—which the painter never intended.

It being Saturday afternoon, Kingcote found himself waiting in a great press at the hour that Isabel had mentioned. The face for which he looked at length shone upon him, and he discerned the two young ladies upon whose appearance he had speculated—Rhoda Meres, with her tall, graceful figure and melancholy prettiness; Hilda, greatly more interesting, of flower-like freshness and purity, her keen look anticipating the pleasure that was before her. Kingcote was conscious of missing some one; whilst he was joining the three, he sought for Ada Warren, but she seemed not to be of the party. He could not understand why her absence should occasion him anything like disappointment, yet it assuredly did. He was wondering whether she had changed at all since he saw her.

He was presented to the two girls, and did what he could in the way of amiable interrogation and remark. Hilda, constraining her sisters companionship, began to examine the pictures.

“I must keep them within view,” Mrs. Clarendon said to Kingcote, “but I have no intention of wearying myself by walking round each room. You have been here already; you can point out anything you would like me to see. Where are your friend’s?”

“Much further on.”

“What do you think of these girls?”

“The younger one is delightful.”

“You don’t care for Rhoda; yet she has always been my favourite. Poor things!” she added in a lower tone, “isn’t it hard that they should have nothing in life to look forward to?”

Hilda turned to draw Mrs. Clarendon’s attention to a picture.

“Miss Warren has not come with you?” Kingcote asked, when there was again opportunity.

“No; she kept at home. But the girls have just been surprising me. If you buy to-day’s Tattler you’ll find something that she has written—a description—something about the river.”

“Verse?”

“No, prose. They are all in great excitement about it. I must get the paper; I don’t suppose she’ll send it to me.”

Kingcote was much interested; he promised himself to read this contribution as soon as possible.

When at length they reached the “Market Night,” it was very difficult to get a view of the canvas. But for Isabel a few glances were enough.

“Oh, I don’t like that at all!” she exclaimed positively, moving away from the throng. “Those faces are disgusting. I should not like to have such a picture as that in my house.”

“In that I agree with you,” Kingcote said. Hilda had also come away and was listening. “But it is a wonderful picture for all that.”

“What a pity he paints such things! Why don’t you make him choose pleasant subjects?”

“I imagine Gabriel’s answer if I said such a thing to him,” said Kingcote, smiling. “I suppose the artist must paint what he can and will; our likes and dislikes will not much affect him. But don’t you admire the skill and power, at all events?”

Hilda went to look again, guided by this remark; she snapped up anything that seemed likely to instruct her taste with the eager voracity of a robin.

But Isabel only shook her head and shuddered a little.

“Is the other picture as bad?” she asked.

“It’s just opposite; come and look.”

This was the child in front of the shop-window.

“No, not quite as bad,” was Isabel’s judgment. “But he has such a taste for low subjects. Why doesn’t he paint decent people?”

“I’d rather keep clear of the gutter myself,” conceded her companion. “Still–”

He did not conclude, and they crossed to the girls again. Shortly, Mrs. Clarendon met with a party of friends, and Kingcote drew away. A tall, heavy man of a military type bent insinuatingly as he talked to her; King-cote fretted at the sight. To avoid and forget it he joined Hilda Meres. The bright intelligence which made way through her shyness charmed him; possibly the extreme respect with which she received every word of his utterance did not diminish his interest in her. Rhoda scarcely spoke, but her smile, too, was very sweet. How he wished that his sister could have companions such as these! And, as Mary came into his mind—she sitting alone in her widow’s weeds—he felt impatient with the bright mob crushing about him. He did not need to be reminded, yet it reminded him again, how heartless the world is....

Ada had made pretext of a headache to stay at home. Possibly she would not have done so, but for the fact of her first piece of writing having appeared to-day. She did not care to present herself before Mrs. Clarendon as if anxious to be congratulated. Yet it concerned her not a little to know that Mrs. Clarendon read what she had written; she had joy in the thought that at length she could prove herself not insignificant. Henceforth her position was far other than it had been, in her own eyes at all events. Formerly she was scarcely a person, rather a mere disagreeable fact, troubling and puzzling people; she had no rights, and no satisfaction save the illiberal one of feeling the brute power which circumstances had given her. Now she was a human being, and her heart was full.

This that The Tattler had printed was a little sketch called “River Twilight”; it occupied a column of the weekly paper, and was of course unsigned. Walking with Hilda along the Embankment a fortnight ago, when there was a finely dusky heaven, it had first of all struck her that she might find bits for her pencil about here; then came the suggestion to picture in words that which had so impressed her. She went home, and up to her own room, and by midnight had written her description. She resolved not to show this to Mr. Meres, but to try her luck at once with one of the papers which published similar things; it was despatched the first thing in the morning. In a day or two there came to her an envelope with which she hastened into privacy; she had seen the name of The Tattler stamped on the back. It contained a proof.

Perhaps it would be literally true to say that this was the first great pleasure that life had brought her. She sat and sobbed for joy; a vast gratitude possessed her whole being—gratitude to the Fates, as she would have said. She could not believe that in very truth her writing was going to be printed; nay, that it was printed, and lay before her! With eyes constantly blinded by a foolish rush of tears, she read through the composition—oh, how many times! One misprint there was, and one only; she laughed at the nonsense it made. Mr. Meres was not at home, or she could not have resisted showing him the proof; she could not delay the posting of it (“by return of post” was requested), and it was so much the better; she would astonish him with the paper on Saturday. She went out, dropped her envelope into the nearest pillar, and wandered along the Embankment, night-time though it was. The girls she had avoided—it was better to be alone. The blackness of the river was full of intense meaning; the stars above flashed and burned like beacons; the rush of the night air she drank like wine. Over to the south was a red glare; that was Lambeth—to her a mysterious region of toil and trouble. The fierceness of human conflict had all at once assumed for her the significance of kindred emotion. She, too—only a girl, and without that which in girls is prized—might perhaps find some work in the world. Would they pay her for this contribution? She stood still, as if her breath had been caught. The glare in the south became a mighty illumination of the heavens; it was like the rising of a new sun. She leaned upon the stone parapet, and strove to fix the idea which had shot so into birth. Would they pay her? Might she hope to earn by writing enough to live upon? Mr. Meres had always spoken of that aspect of literature very gloomily; he, indeed, had never ceased to find it the hardest struggle to earn a living. But then he had his children to support....

She turned to go home. On one of the seats which she passed, a wretched woman was huddling herself in her rags, as if preparing to sleep. Ada took out her purse and gave money.

“Who knows?” she said to herself, “my mother may be such an one....”

Thomas Meres was exultant when Ada showed him her achievement. He reminded himself just in time, and only just in time, that excess of laudation was not advisable, but he could not prevent his eyes from twinkling with delight. Hilda was less cautious, nothing less than enthusiasm could satisfy her. Rhoda gave approval, which surprised her sister and her father by its cool moderateness.

Ada had meant to send a copy of the paper to Mrs. Clarendon, but at the last she altered her mind; she could not bear the thought of being misinterpreted. One copy she did dispatch, and that was to Lacour, having pencilled her initials at the end of the article.

At dinner there was of course talk of Academy experiences. It was mentioned that Mr. Kingcote had been met with and introduced.

“There were two pictures by a friend of his, a Mr. Gabriel,” Hilda said, and described what they were. “Mrs. Clarendon couldn’t bear them, but Mr. Kingcote said they were very powerful, and so they seemed to me. I wish I could have looked at them longer and closer, but there was such a crowd.”

“I have seen mention of the ‘Market Night,’” observed her father. “I must manage to get a look at it. I am not surprised Mrs. Clarendon didn’t like it.”

“Oh, but she didn’t look at it from an artistic point of view,” Hilda went on to explain with much zeal. “Very likely it wasn’t a pretty subject, but that has nothing to do with its merits as a picture.”

“You are an advanced young lady,” jested Mr. Meres. “Art for art’s sake, eh? What’s your opinion Ada? Must a picture necessarily be pleasant to look at?”

“It depends what we call pleasant,” hazarded Ada. “I fancy people think very differently about that.”

“Yes, I suppose that’s the fact of the matter. What view did Mr. Kingcote take?”

Ada turned her eyes to Hilda and listened.

“I fancy,” said the girl, with a roguish smile, “he didn’t like to disagree with Mrs. Clarendon; but he thought the picture good for all that. I like Mr. Kingcote, don’t you, Ada?”

The question was unexpected, and Ada was not ready with an answer. She tried to say something natural and off-hand, and could not hit on the right words. To her extreme annoyance, she saw that her embarrassment was attracting attention. Mr. Meres glanced at her, and then showed artificial interest in something at the other end of the room.

“I can’t say that I have thought much about him,” she uttered at length, with exaggerated indifference. She was intensely angry with herself for her utterly groundless difficulty. If she had not thought of Kingcote before, she at all events did so now, and with not a little acrimony.

She and Mr. Meres passed each other by chance about an hour after dinner.

“Will you come and give me some help?” the latter asked.

“Certainly.”

He wanted her to read aloud several pages from a German book, the while he scanned an English translation which was under review. When this was done, he sat musing, and stroked his nose.

“You couldn’t have done better,” he exclaimed at length with abruptness. “That little thing is rounded and polished, complete in itself, an artistic bit of work. Stick to quite short pieces for awhile, and polish, polish! By-the-bye, you have been reading De Quincey of late?”

“How do you know?”

“A word or two, a turn in the style, that’s all,” he said, smiling.

“Will they pay me for it?” Ada brought herself to ask.

“Oh, yes; you’ll have your guinea for the column. The Tattler pays at the end of each month, I believe. You look as pleased,” he added, with a laugh, “as if your bread and cheese depended on it.”

“The labourer is worthy of his—or her—hire,” Ada remarked.

“Don’t, for heaven’s sake, don’t begin to look on it in that way! Happily you are under no such vile necessity. Rejoice in your freedom. No man can bid you write your worst, that the public may be caught.”

“Yet not long ago you made light of my efforts just because I was not dependent on literature.”

“I have seen since that you mean serious things. Beggary is an aid to no one; if it impels to work, it embitters the result. With the flow of a hungry man’s inspiration there cannot but mingle something of the salt of tears. One’s daily bread at least must be provided—I don’t say one’s daily banquet. If the absence of need checks your creative impulse, it doesn’t greatly matter; in that case you would never have done anything worth speaking of. No, no; rejoice in your freedom. Thank heaven that you can live, as old Landor says, ‘Beyond the arrows, shouts, and views of men.’”

There was silence; then he asked:

“Have you sent the paper to Mrs. Clarendon?”

Ada replied with a negative.

He kept his eyes from her, and stirred in his seat.

“You think she would not care to see it?”

“I don’t think she would.”

“Do you remember,” he began, with uncertain voice, “that not long ago I was going to ask you to do something to please me.”

“I remember it.”

“Can you guess what that was?”

She did not answer at once. Her face showed inner movements of conflicting kinds; she seemed to struggle to banish that hardness of expression which fixed her features against an unwelcome thought.

“Had it,” she asked at length, “anything to do with Mrs. Clarendon?”

“Yes, Ada, it had. You do not like her. One’s likes and dislikes cannot easily be altered to suit another’s wish, but if by any means I could bring you to kind thoughts of her, I think I should be content to forget every other hope that life still nourishes in me.”

She did not speak.

“Can you be open enough with me to say why it is you dislike her?” He spoke very softly and kindly, and with a hint of things which could not but touch a listener.

Ada began with trembling:

“It seems to have grown with me. I shrank from her when, as a child, I was first brought into her presence. Her look was contemptuous, cruel; for all that I was such a poor, helpless creature, and should have moved her pity. Since I have known everything, she has seemed to me the more to be blamed I cannot sympathise with her, though I know others do. There is no motive in her life that seems to me noble or lovable. I think her selfish; I think she has brought upon herself all her troubles by her deliberate choice of lower things. I may miss the better points in her character; I am intensely prejudiced.”

Meres listened with pain which at length compelled him to turn his head away. Ada would not look at him. She knew what she was inflicting, but could not stay her tongue sooner. One of the million forms of jealousy fretted her, and jealousy is cruel.

“Did she ever tell you anything of my earlier life?” he asked, when he could command his voice.

“Nothing, except that you had—had not been happy in your marriage.”

It was a little strange for her to be speaking thus with a man so much her elder, but the subject of their emotions put them on equal ground.

“Do you know that I was once secretary to Mr. Clarendon?”

She gazed at him with agitated interest.

“I did not know that.”

“Yes, I was; all through the five years of his married life. I had many opportunities of understanding his private affairs, and I could not help seeing what the relations were between him and his wife. Mrs. Clarendon is to be forgiven everything.”

Ada heard, with bowed head.

“What her moral claims and standing may be—with that we have no concern. Such judgments have little to do with personal feeling, and I want, if it be possible, to soften your heart to her, that is all. I owe Mrs. Clarendon more than I owe any one, dead or living. At her husband’s death I was plunged into sufferings which I cannot speak of in detail—they would have been bad enough in any case, and were made all but intolerable by the completest poverty. If it had not been for the children, I should assuredly have killed myself. In my despair I wrote to her. I had never been on such terms with her as warranted me in doing this, but–” he waved his hand.

“It would have been natural enough if she had thrown aside my letter, as awakening disagreeable memories, and left it unanswered. Instead of that, she met me with such kindness as one human being seldom shows to another. She invited me to come to Knightswell, and insisted on my bringing the children—they had, happily, no mother. I was wretchedly ill, unable to exert myself in any way, only the workhouse was before me.”

His voice failed him for a moment.

“I remember your coming,” Ada said quietly.

“After that life was hard enough, but never what it had been. If I were to tell you all she has been to the girls since then–” He broke off. “Perhaps you would think there was shame in it; that I should have been too proud to accept so much help. It may be so. A man submits for the sake of his children to what would perhaps degrade him if he stood alone. Well, these are the things that I wanted you to know. And more; Mrs. Clarendon has never spoken to me of you in any but the justest and most generous way. She has recognised your talents, and has always accepted gladly any suggestion I made for your good. Think, Ada—that cannot have been easy to her.”

There was a long silence. Then the girl asked:

“Did you ever see my mother?”

“Your parents were unknown to me.”

“I did not say my parents—my mother.”

She corrected him with cold emphasis, looking into his face. Meres averted his eyes.

“No, I never saw her,” was his uneasy reply.

“Mr. Ledbury, one of the trustees, tells me that she was on the stage.”

He looked surprised.

“Mrs. Clarendon referred me to him,” Ada explained, “for information she herself could not, or did not wish to give. He says she was in the habit of applying to him for money up to about two years ago, and that he knows nothing of her at present.”

“My child, why should you make those inquiries?”

“Because I have a very natural desire to know whether my mother is suffering from want, and to help her if she is. It appears that nothing was left to her.”

“Ada, there is only one thing I can say on this subject. I think it very unlikely indeed that you will ever hear any more of your mother. Mr. Ledbury will say no more than he has done, be sure of that.”

“Then he should not have said so much.”

“I myself think so. Try to put all that out of your thoughts. You are impelled by a sense of duty, I know; but remember that in the case of parent and child duties are reciprocal, or they do not exist at all. I earnestly beg you to put your mother’s existence utterly from your mind; it can never be anything but a source of misery to you. I had hoped the subject would never give you trouble. Pray do not let it, Ada.”

He spoke with extreme earnestness, and his words seemed to produce an effect. When, shortly afterwards, Ada shook hands and bade him good-night, she added:

“I will think much of all you have said tonight.” Then, in a lower voice, “I am not unprepared for what you would teach me.”

The listener attached no special meaning to the last words; they seemed to him only dictated by good-will to himself.

It was with a good deal of interest that Meres went to meet Kingcote at dinner on the following day. He had got one or two fancies about the young man, which made him anxious to gauge his character for himself. He was the first of the party to arrive, and Isabel’s talk to him was about the object of his thoughts.

“If you find him congenial,” she said, “it would be very good of you to ask him to come and see you now and then. You and Ada can talk about the things he cares for. Has Ada spoken of him?”

“She has told me about his singular rustication,” Mr. Meres replied, trying to meet her eye. But he did not succeed.

“He lives with his sister, a widow. Her I don’t know. I think—well, it seems she married somebody of an undesirable kind, and I don’t suppose she sees people. Will you make a note of his address? Pray, pray don’t let me put a burden upon you; it’s only that he has need of pleasant acquaintances–”

“I quite understand,” replied the other, smiling. And, in truth, he thought he did.

The lady who was the third guest was a genial and rather homely creature; she and Isabel talked women’s talk whilst the gentlemen became friendly after dinner. In the course of chat Mr. Meres did not fail to say that he and his family were always at home after three o’clock on Sunday, and would be pleased as often as Kingcote chose to look in. He mentioned Ada’s appearance in The Tattler, and was gratified to hear Kingcote’s praise. The two got on very well together. Mr. Meres felt surer than ever that he understood....

Kingcote did not look well to-night; he had the appearance of one who lacks sleep. The night before, Mary, after listening to his ceaseless footsteps till three o’clock, had gone up and knocked at his door. After a word or two he opened.

“Why are you up so late, Bernard?” she asked. “I heard you moving, and feared you might be unwell.”

“I have been reading,” he replied. “I quite forgot that you were underneath. It’s too bad to wake you.”

“I have not been asleep. I am anxious about you. Won’t you go to bed?”

“To be sure I will. It’s later than I thought. You shan’t hear another sound.”

“But it’s not that I care about,” she urged. “I would rather sit with you, if you can’t rest.”

“No, no; there’s nothing to be anxious about. We shall wake the children if we talk so much. Be off and sleep, Mary.”

She went, with a heavy heart. She was much disturbed on her brother’s account.

To-night it was misery to him to have to go away with the others, without one word for himself. After walking to the end of the street, he came back and stood looking at the lighted windows. Presently the drawing-room became dark. He set out on his long journey to Highgate.

“Has it been a pleasant evening?” Mary asked. She liked to look at her brother in his evening dress; it gave her all manner of thoughts. At his entrance she had closed a folio volume of Jeremy Taylor’s sermons, which, in impatience at some unwholesome little book she was bent over, Kingcote had put into her hands a few days ago. “At least read good English,” had been the accompanying remark.

In answer to her question he gave a weary, indifferent affirmative.

“How did you like Mr. Meres?”

“Oh, he’s a very decent fellow. He wants me to visit him next Sunday. I believe I promised, but it is scarcely likely that I shall go.”

“Why not? Certainly you ought to. Society is just what you want.”

“I can’t talk!” he exclaimed impatiently. “I should be a bore. It was only out of politeness that he asked me.”

“You wouldn’t find it too disagreeable to meet Miss Warren?”

“Why should I? Rather the contrary.” During the next days he was not often at home. He tried to make distractions for himself in picture galleries and museums, and for a little while half succeeded. But when the fourth day brought no letter from Isabel, impatience overcame him. In the afternoon he called to see her. He was conducted upstairs, and, as soon as the door opened for the announcement of his name, he heard the voices of people in conversation. It was too late to retreat, and, indeed, he had half expected this; he could not ask below whether Mrs. Clarendon was alone. He entered, and found half-a-dozen strangers; Isabel interrupted her vivacious talk, and received him.

It might have been five minutes or half-an-hour that he stayed; he could not have said which. He found himself introduced to some one, he said something, he drank tea. He was only conscious of living when at length in the street again. It was as if madness had got hold upon him; the tension of preserving a calm demeanour whilst he sat in the room made his blood rise to fever-heat. The voices of the polite triflers about him grew to the intolerable screaming and chattering of monkeys. Insensate jealousy frenzied him. He could not look at Isabel’s face, and when she spoke to him he felt a passion almost of hatred, so fiercely did he resent the friendly indifference of her tone....

He entered a stationer’s shop, and bought a sheet of note-paper and an envelope, then walked into the park, and, on the first seat he reached, sat down and began to write in pencil. He poured forth all the fury of his love and the bitterness of his misery, overwhelmed her with reproaches, bade her choose between him and this hateful world which was his curse. Only lack of paper brought him to a close. This astonishing effusion he deliberately—nay, he was incapable of deliberation—but with a savage determinedness posted at the first pillar. Then he walked on and on, heedless whitherwards—Oxford Street, Holborn, the City, round to Pentonville, to Highbury. He was chased by demons; thought had become a funeral pyre of reason and burned ceaselessly. The last three days had been a preparation for this, only a trivial occasion was needed to drive him out of brooding into delirium. Alas, it was only the beginning! May—June. Could he live to the end of that second month?