felt tired of writing, tired of work.
Wine, laughter, sound, smiles, other voices?--Then four points rose
before me, very distinct and clear, like sharp mountain peaks from a
valley of mist.

FIRST. Supposing--if such a thing were possible--supposing on coming
out of this house I came face to face with Lucia, should I be entirely
pleased.

NEXT. Should I, when the present inclination were over, have a
satisfactory memory of this supper.

NEXT. Did I habitually mean to spend my evenings in this way?

LAST. Was it worth while spoiling a record for the sake of a single
deviation?

I answered No to each of these as they came before me in order, with
the upshot that I determined not to go. When Howard came in again I
looked up. He was dressed to the Enth, and as I glanced at his
good-looking, intelligent face, I thought how incongruous it seemed for
him to degrade himself with drink at this supper, and return, as he
probably would, a pitiable object to look at and listen to.

"Going to work, eh?"

I nodded. Howard hitched the cape of his overcoat straight, and went
out. As he shut the door I sprang suddenly to my feet. For a moment the
impulse towards distraction, amusement, relief from strain, physical
movement, overcame me. All the strong, ardent life rushed up within me.
A tremendous prompting came to shout after him, "Wait a minute, Howard!
I'll come, too, after all!" I was half way to the door. Then I laughed
and turned back. I went up to the mantelpiece and unlocked the doors of
a portrait frame that stood there, and flung them open. It was the
frame of Lucia's portrait, which, like the temple of Janus, stood
closed in times of peace and open in times of war. Now was war, and I
gazed at the picture within for encouragement. There was equal sinuous,
supple beauty in this form as in that outline on the Paris card, that
lay, perhaps, in the pocket of every flaneur on the boulevards. I
looked at the smooth, perfect shoulders, and those soft arms that had
never yet been drawn round a lover's neck; at the extreme pride and
dignity that lay in every line of the form that had never been touched
by a rough hand. It swept from me in one gust the thoughts and
tendencies struggling to rise. It brought back all the old revolt from
the lowest, all the old admiration for the highest, in human nature.
"Yes, you are worth it," I muttered, looking hard at the chaste,
exquisite pride in face and form; "you are worth being worthy