Sunday night, to brood alone over a half-dead
fire; and, brooding there, had surmised what the morrow made
certain--that she had taken with her yet more than she had even
brought; that even what colour, what small interest, had formerly
cheered the daily round on Garrison Hill and made it tolerable, was now
gone out of it forever.

Well, for good or ill, this, at all events, would need to be endured
but a little while longer. His discharge was in sight. He had posted
his letter.

He did not tell himself that but for Vashti it had never been written.
Or, if this crossed his mind, it suggested no more than gratitude.
Quite unwittingly she had helped him play the man. He had done the
right thing, let follow what might.

He could not force his mind upon possible consequences, to face them or
to fret over them. Between this present hour and then, one thought,
like a bright angel, stood in the way. Vashti was coming!

Ah, but when? Would she come openly, by day, as she had invaded
Inniscaw?... He spent the afternoon in his office, sorting out useless
correspondence, clearing desks, drawers, pigeon-holes of the
accumulations of years, unconsciously preparing for the day of his
discharge. It kept his thoughts employed, and he worked hard--reading
through the dusty papers, tearing them up, consigning some to the
waste-paper basket others to the fire, which by-and-by grew sullen
under its task. Twilight fell.... She would come, then, after dusk, and
secretly--mooring her boat in the hiding-place under the Keg of Butter
Battery, away from inquisitive eyes. At half-past five Archelaus
brought him his tea. At six, having washed and refreshed himself, the
Commandant fell to work again more doggedly. Only now and again he
broke off for a few moments to listen. But Vashti did not come.

He worked until half-past nine. He heard the clock strike the half-hour
from the chimney-piece, and looked up almost in dismay. It was certain
now that she would not come. Of a sudden, as though to hide from him
the full measure of his disappointment, as he had been hiding from
himself the full eagerness of his hopes, a loathing took him--a savage
scorn of his useless labour. He stared at his grimed hands with a
shiver of disgust, and, rising impatiently, swept together the
fragments of paper strewn about the floor, tossed them upon the dying
fire, and went off to his room for another wash.

She would not come; and there remained yet an hour bet