ony he does not know how to bear.

So, although on the last two or three occasions he had not won the
victory without a struggle, Anstice had managed to win through without
lowering his flag; but to-night he began to wonder whether after all it
were worth while waging the unequal war any longer.

He had parted from Iris Wayne, as he thought, for ever. As the wife of
Bruce Cheniston he must henceforward regard her; and although he was no
saint, to covet his neighbour's wife was not compatible with Anstice's
code of decency.

He might love her still--at this moment he thought he knew that he would
love her always--but for all practical purposes their friendship, with
all its privileges and its obligations, was at an end. And this being
so, why should he hesitate to gain, if he might, relief from this agony
of mind and body by the help of the drug he had hitherto forsworn?

It is always hard on a man when to physical anguish is added agony of
mind, since in that dual partnership of pain no help may be rendered
either by its complementary part; and it does not need a physician to
know that such help given by the one to the other is frequently a ruling
factor in the recovery of the sick body or mind. And to-night Anstice
was enduring a physical and mental suffering which taxed mind and body
to their utmost limits, and absolutely precluded the possibility of any
helpful reaction one upon the other.

His eyeballs felt as though they were being pierced by red-hot needles;
while the stabbing pain in his head increased every moment. Had he
witnessed such suffering in another he would instantly have set about
alleviating it so far as his skill might allow; but he told himself that
there was only one effectual remedy for him and that was forbidden him
by his implied promise to Iris Wayne. And so he sat on in a corner of
the couch in his dim and shadowy room, and endured the excruciating pain
as best he might.

The house was very quiet, and suddenly he remembered that the servants
were out, witnessing the fireworks which Sir Richard had provided in the
park of Greengates for the entertainment of the village on the eve of
his daughter's wedding.

They had asked permission to go, and he had granted it readily enough;
and now he was grateful for the peace and tranquillity which their
absence engendered in the dark and quiet house.

Dimmer and more gloomy grew the room in which he sat--his
consulting-room, chosen to-night for i