tnight?" and I thought I
could.

A quarter of an hour passed, and Howard had not moved from his position
in the window. A very little day-dreaming is enough for me, especially
about a woman. I yawned, stretched, and finally got up.

"Howard," I said, "I'm going out for a turn with Nous, but I will came
back in time for dinner."

I lingered, but he said nothing. I put on my hat, called the dog, and
went out. I started to walk to the Arc, and the distance there and back
would have taken me, as I had said, till our dinner hour, but half way
there the inclination failed. I felt tired and turned back.

"How utterly done up I feel!" I thought; "not worth anything. This last
book has thoroughly taken it out of me. Rest! Rest! That was what I
longed for now. My whole system seemed crying out for it. Of all the
benefits the just-accomplished work would bring, celebrity, money,
even, yes, even Lucia, seemed not so seductive in those moments as the
possibility of gratifying this intolerable mental and physical craving
for repose."

As I walked home a sense of tranquillity, a quiet, peaceful feeling of
relief was transfused through me, and seemed communicated from the mind
to the body and to every nerve of my frame, as if I were under the
influence of some soothing drug.

I reached the hotel considerably before the time I had mentioned to
Howard, and I supposed he would be out. However, as I came near I saw
that our window was well lighted up. In fact, there seemed an unusually
brilliant light in the room. Nous and I went up the stairs. He seemed
to know and feel his master's good spirits, and kept licking my hand at
intervals as he bounded up the stairs beside me, and then outstripping
me, he would wait on the landing above me impatiently till I got there,
in a hurry to race up the next flight.

As I opened my door a peculiar scent of smoke reached me, and the air
was clouded and singularly warm. Howard was in the room, and I could
not make out at first what he was doing. He was crouching on his heels
in front of the grate and seemingly stirring or poking something
beneath the bars. Some, I can hardly define what, instinct, guided my
eyes to the side table where I had left my manuscript. It was gone. At
that instant: the wind from the wide open window and door blew the lamp
flame and stirred the curtains, and a great sheet of whole black tinder
drifted across the carpet up to my feet.

Then I knew--he was burning, or had