erest kind of
reflections. Then I decided to go out, and found I had left my hat in
the bedroom. Very cautiously I opened one leaf of the folding doors,
tip-toed into the small room, and took my hat from the chair on which
it lay. My gaze fell for one instant across the recumbent figure of my
wife, and was withdrawn sharply. I went out with anger and revulsion
in my heart, and walked rather quickly for an hour, conscious of no
relief from bitterness, no softening of my feelings.

Then I happened to pass a familiar restaurant, and told myself I would
have some dinner. 'She must go her own way,' I muttered savagely.

I entered the place, found a seat, and consulted the bill of fare. A
greasily smiling Italian came to take my order.

'Madame is not wiz you, sare?' the fellow said.

We had not been there for a month, but he remembered; and, on the
instant, I recalled our last visit--the beginning of one of our fresh
starts. And this was the end of it. Well!

Suddenly I found myself reaching for my hat.

'No,' I said, 'madam is late. I will go and look for her.' And out I
went. In that moment I had seen pictures: Fanny, before our marriage,
on her knees at my hearth in the room in Howard Street; in her
dove-coloured frock on our marriage night, clinging to my arm when
she was fresh from the excitement of leaving Howard Street. There were
other scenes. What an immature and helpless child she was! And how
much help had I given her? After all, food and clothing and so forth,
freedom from tyranny--well, these were not everything. She needed more
intimate care and guidance. The responsibility was mine.

In the end I went to a shop and bought the materials for a meal, even
as on an evening which seemed very long ago, when I had given her
supper in my bedroom. Only, on this occasion, with a sigh which
contained considerable self-reproach, I omitted Burgundy, or any
equivalent thereto. We had the wherewithal for brewing tea in our
rooms. And so, carrying a supper for us both, I returned to the
lodging. And there was Fanny on her knees before the hearth in the
sitting-room, just as she had been on that previous occasion. And now
she was crying. Her nerveless fingers held no brush. The hearth was
far from speckless, and the grate held only dead grey ashes, and some
scraps of torn paper--my own wasted manuscript.

Fanny was weeping, weakly and quietly. She knew, then. She had not
forgotten that I had seen her. But her hair had