motions. His
soul still numb with shock, his mind was altogether preoccupied with
petulant resentment of the unfairness of it all; on the surface of the
stunning knowledge that he might count on no more than six months of
life, floated this thin film of sensation of personal grievance. He had
done nothing to deserve this. The sheer brutality of it....

He felt very shaky indeed.

He stood for a long time--how long he never knew--bareheaded on a
corner, just as he had left Greyerson's office: scowling at nothing,
considering the enormity of the wrong that had been put upon him. Later,
realizing that people were staring, he clapped on his hat to satisfy
them and strode aimlessly down Sixth Avenue. It was five o'clock in the
afternoon of a day late in April--a raw, chilly, dark, unseasonable
brute of a day. He found himself walking fast, instinctively, to keep
his blood in warm circulation, and this struck him as so inconsistent
that presently he stopped short and snarled at himself:

"You blithering fool, what difference does it make whether you're warm
or cold? Don't you understand you're going to die within half a year?"

He strove manfully to grapple with this hideous fact. He felt so well,
so strong and efficient; and yet he walked in the black shadow of death,
a shadow from which there was for him no escape.

He thought it the damnedest sensation imaginable!

On top of this reflection came the third clause of Greyerson's analysis:
he made the discovery that he wanted a drink--a lot of drinks: in point
of fact, more than he had ever had before, enough to make him forget.

He turned across-town toward Fifth Avenue, came to his club, and went
in. Passing through the office, force of habit swung his gaze to the
letter-rack. There was a square white envelope in the W pigeonhole, and
it proved to be addressed to him. He knew the handwriting very well--too
well; his heart gave a great jump as he recognized it, and then sank
like a stone; for not only must he die, but he must give up the girl he
loved and had planned to marry. The first thing he meant to do (after
getting that drink) was to write to her and explain and release her from
her promise. The next thing....

He refused to let the idea of the next step form in his mind. But he
knew very well what it would be. In the backwards of his understanding
it lurked--a gray, grisly, shameful shadow.

"Anyhow," he muttered, "I'm not going to stick round here, dying by