e further into its distant absorbed note, his
fingers were withdrawn from Blake's close pressure with a haste that was
unusual, and turning away, he crossed the boulevard as though the vision
of some spectre had lent wings to his feet.

No impression of romance touched him as he hastened up the narrow
streets toward his home. He had no eyes for the secret shadows, the
mysterious corners usually so fruitful of suggestion; his whole
perceptions were turned inward; his self-consciousness was a thing so
living, so acute that he went forward as one bereft of sight or hearing.

Reaching the foot of the Escalier de Sainte-Marie, he quickened his
already hurried pace, and began to run up the uneven steps. The door of
his house stood open, and he plunged into the dark well of the hall
without waiting to strike a match. By instinct his hand found the
smooth banister, and he began his climb of the stairs.

Up he went, and up, living in himself with that perfect absorption that
comes in rare and violent moments--moments of sorrow, of pleasure or, it
may be, of surprise, when a new thought suspends the action of the
brain.

In obedience to some unconsidered instinct he softened his steps on
reaching the fifth floor, and crept across the bare corridor to the door
of his own rooms.

He entered quietly, and still ignoring the need for light, groped a way
to his bedroom.

It was the room that had once belonged to Madame Salas; and, like the
kitchen, it looked upon the network of roofs and chimneys that spread
away at the rear of the house. Now, as he entered, closed the door, and
stood leaning against it, breathing quickly, these roofs and chimneys,
seen through the uncurtained window, made a picturesque medley of lines
and curves startlingly distinct against the star-powdered sky.

The ethereal light of a Parisian spring night filled the room, touching
the white walls--the white bed--a bowl of flowers upon the
dressing-table and its fairy-like reflection in the mirror--to a subtly
insidious fragility that verged upon the unreal; and the boy, quivering
to his tangled sensations, felt this unreality quicken his
self-distrust, touch and goad him as a spur.

Physical action became imperative; he walked unsteadily across the room,
pulled the serge curtains across the window, abruptly shutting out both
stars and roofs, and turning to the dressing-table, groped for matches
and struck a light.

Four candles stood in an old silver ca