get up again. His face had long been a mask, but never had it
been coloured in this way, and Weldon knew that the artist responsible
for that tinting never worked on any subject but once.

Between two ticks of the clock, it might be, Weldon saw himself leaping
to the window, pouring water from the inner lavatory, calling for
brandy, loosening the collar. So vivid was this vision that it seemed
he must be doing all this, actually, and he stood vacant-eyed, staring
at the dead man. Once he tried to take a step, but his very muscles
seemed paralysed, and a voice, steady as the clock, seemed to tell him:

"How senseless! The man is dead. Dead. You know it. Let him alone.
Think what to do. How can you escape? Think! Think!"

Suddenly his mind cleared and he laughed shortly, with relief. He had
felt literally guilty. But he had not killed the president. It was
the president who would have killed him. What had he done but protect
himself? If the shock of his defensive lunge had done for Mr. Deeping,
how could he help that? The man's time had come, that was all. And it
was a quick death, a good way. He moved toward the body again and
tried to lift it, but had not the strength. He could not do it
decently. The revolver was still in his hand, and with a quick
exclamation he pushed it into the hip pocket again, considered a
moment, took it out, felt for his folded list at the bottom of the
pocket, got it, and restored the revolver. Moving toward the little
mirror in the lavatory, he straightened his tie, wiped his face, then
stood, thinking, between the body and the door.

Curiously enough, the figure on the floor hardly disturbed his
consciousness. It was difficult for him to take Mr. Deeping seriously,
even in death. He had, always been an absurdity; posturing,
phrase-making, repellant. Death conferred a dignity, he had supposed,
but death had not done this for the president. Another time-worn
superstition, that: humanity had invented so many. Suppose all those
old ideas should turn out, on the event, to be as threadbare, and
empty? Remorse, for instance? Would one dishonesty, one violent break
with the canons of honour, never repeated, _oh, surely never repeated!_
tincture all the future with a slow, spreading black drop? If so ...
but why imagine it? It was unlikely. A whip in the closet to frighten
the timid children....

He shook himself briskly. A clever business, to stand philosophising