s conviction came to him with terrible force out there in the dark.

His philosophy left him; and surly anger took its place. Her conduct
was immoral, inexcusable, worthy of any punishment within his power. He
desired no one but her, and she refused him!

She must really hate him, then! He had never believed it yet. He did not
believe it now. It seemed to him incredible. He felt as though he had
lost for ever his power of judgment. If she, so soft and yielding as
he had always judged her, could take this decided step--what could not
happen?

Then he asked himself again if she were carrying on an intrigue with
Bosinney. He did not believe that she was; he could not afford to
believe such a reason for her conduct--the thought was not to be faced.

It would be unbearable to contemplate the necessity of making his
marital relations public property. Short of the most convincing proofs
he must still refuse to believe, for he did not wish to punish himself.
And all the time at heart--he did believe.

The moonlight cast a greyish tinge over his figure, hunched against the
staircase wall.

Bosinney was in love with her! He hated the fellow, and would not spare
him now. He could and would refuse to pay a penny piece over
twelve thousand and fifty pounds--the extreme limit fixed in the
correspondence; or rather he would pay, he would pay and sue him for
damages. He would go to Jobling and Boulter and put the matter in their
hands. He would ruin the impecunious beggar! And suddenly--though what
connection between the thoughts?--he reflected that Irene had no money
either. They were both beggars. This gave him a strange satisfaction.

The silence was broken by a faint creaking through the wall. She was
going to bed at last. Ah! Joy and pleasant dreams! If she threw the door
open wide he would not go in now!

But his lips, that were twisted in a bitter smile, twitched; he covered
his eyes with his hands....

It was late the following afternoon when Soames stood in the dining-room
window gazing gloomily into the Square.

The sunlight still showered on the plane-trees, and in the breeze their
gay broad leaves shone and swung in rhyme to a barrel organ at the
corner. It was playing a waltz, an old waltz that was out of fashion,
with a fateful rhythm in the notes; and it went on and on, though
nothing indeed but leaves danced to the tune.

The woman did not look too gay, for she was tired; and from the tall
houses no one thr