r had occurred to him, of course, that they were
coached by an ideal hostess.

It may be well imagined, then, that he now hesitated before taking any
step that might affect his very methodical arrangements about writing.
His sister, once thrown over (he told himself), would never return.
She would marry or something. Women were like cats: they always did.
She would not stray about uncomfortably until he wanted her again. No;
she would make a home: and he, as the years went on, would find himself
alone....

He had lit a pipe, and drew at it mechanically, but he was far too rapt
to taste it. Kenneth Boyd's words on that one point had certainly gone
home. His eyes fixed on a glowing cavern of red embers, he saw unroll
before him a grisly panorama of the days to be.

He could see himself, bereft of Ruth's care, moving to a bachelor flat
where they "did for" one; happy enough perhaps, at first, in solitude,
and working well--happy and working until illness came. Then he saw
the change. Ruth, he admitted, had been quite splendid--like her old
self--when he had been ill. That was when you wanted a woman about....
Then, as Kenneth had said, he would grow older. He could see himself
climbing, more and more shakily each year, the long flight to his flat;
too settled far by now to move even to a lower floor. He could see the
porters and people saluting--oh, so respectfully!--till he was past,
and then imitating his old, broken shuffle. He could see himself
turning on with fumbling hands the light he used to switch on so gaily
as he dashed in thirty years ago. He could see himself all alone at
night, when it was too cold for an old man to walk about and no one
wanted him; sitting there with weary eyes tight closed, thinking of the
friends that he would like to see, the friends all dead or--married....
And finally he could see himself climb those stairs, so full of
memories, for the last time, and stagger in for the last time to that
small room where he had had such jolly parties in the years gone by,
and ring and have just strength to gasp out, "I must have a doctor."
Yes, and that old wreck lying there, alone but for a nurse he hated,
longing for sympathy, love--even Ruth's!--yes, that too would be him.
And then----

For one moment the knock on his door startled him. He was like a small
child who, waked suddenly, continues a bad dream. He thought that they
had come with that cheap, humble coffin which he had just