s an obstacle in my way, a weight upon me; that if
it weren't for her, I should get on, have friends, a position; that it
would be a good thing for me if she should die; and she was hoping in
her poor little heart that she wouldn't get well! Oh, I know it, I
knew it--and you see me here alive. She let herself die for my
sake--as if I could care for anything without her. That's what brought
us here, to France, to Bordeaux--her illness. The doctors said she
must pass the spring out of England, away from the March winds, in the
South; and I begged and borrowed money enough to take her. And we were
on our way to Arcachon; but when we reached Bordeaux she was too ill
to continue the journey, and--she died here.'

We walked on for some distance in silence, then he added: 'That was
four years ago. You wonder why I live to tell you of it, why I
haven't cut my throat. I don't know whether it's cowardice or
conscientious scruples. It seems rather inconsequent to say that I
believe in a God, doesn't it?--that I believe one's life is not one's
own to make an end of? Anyhow, here I am, keeping body and soul
together as musician to a _brasserie-a-femmes_. I can't go back
to England, I can't leave Bordeaux--she's buried here. I've
hunted high and low for work, and found it nowhere save in the
_brasserie-a-femmes_. With that, and a little copying now and then, I
manage to pay my way.'

'But your uncle?' I asked.

'Do you think I would touch a penny of his money?' Pair retorted,
almost fiercely. 'It was he who began it. My wife let herself die. It
was virtual suicide. It was he who created the situation that drove
her to it.'

'You are his heir, though, aren't you?'

'No, the estates are not entailed.'

We had arrived at the door of my hotel. 'Well, good-night and _bon
voyage_,' he said.

'You needn't wish me _bon voyage_,' I answered. 'Of course I'm not
leaving Bordeaux for the present.'

'Oh, yes, you are. You're going on to Biarritz to-morrow morning, as
you intended.'

And herewith began a long and most painful struggle. I could persuade
him to accept no help of any sort from me. 'What I can't do for
myself,' he declared, 'I'll do without. My dear fellow, all that you
propose is contrary to the laws of Nature. One man can't keep
another--it's an impossible relation. And I won't be kept; I won't be
a burden. Besides, to tell you the truth, I've got past caring. The
situation you find me in seems terrible to you; to me it