. Henley felt deeply moved, for, as a rule,
Andrew's manner was not specially affectionate, or even agreeable.

"It is all right, old fellow," he said, in the embarrassed English
manner which often covers so much that might with advantage be
occasionally revealed. "Go on in your own way. I believe you are a
genius, and I am only trying to clip the wings that may carry you
through the skies. Go on in your own way, and consult me only when you
feel inclined."

Andrew took his hand and pressed it in silence.

III.

It was some three weeks after this that one afternoon Trenchard laid
down his pen at the conclusion of a chapter, and, getting up, thrust his
hands into his pockets and walked to the window.

The look-out was rather dreary. A gray sky leaned over the great,
barrack-like church that gives an ecclesiastical flavour to
Smith's Square. A few dirty sparrows fluttered above the gray
pavement--feverish, unresting birds, Trenchard named them silently,
as he watched their meaningless activity, their jerky, ostentatious
deportment, with lacklustre, yet excited, eyes. How gray everything
looked, tame, colourless, indifferent! The light was beginning to
fade stealthily out of things. The gray church was gradually becoming
shadowy. The flying forms of the hurrying sparrows disappeared in the
weary abysses of the air and sky. The sitting-room in Smith's Square
was nearly dark now. Henley had gone out to a _matinee_ at one of the
theatres, so Trenchard was alone. He struck a match presently, lit a
candle, carried it over to his writing-table, and began to examine the
littered sheets he had just been writing. The book was nearing its end.
The tragedy was narrowing to a point. Trenchard read the last paragraph
which he had written:

"He hardly knew that he lived, except during those many hours when,
plunged in dreams, he allowed, nay, forced, life to leave him for
awhile. He had sunk to depths below even those which Olive had reached.
And the thought that she was ever so little above him haunted him like a
spectre impelling him to some mysterious deed. When he was not dreaming,
he was dwelling upon this idea which had taken his soul captive. It
seemed to be shaping itself towards an act. Thought was the ante-room
through which he passed to the hall where Fate was sitting, ready to
give him audience. He traversed this ante-room, which seemed lined with
fantastic and terrible pictures, at first with lagging footfalls.