cholas, are you mad--what has happened to you?" she murmured,
spellbound, not daring to move.

"Why, I'm ill, you know; I'm very ill. I'm not mad--I'm only so
abominably tired. You mustn't ask questions; I can't stand it,--I can't
stand it----" And, leaning his arms on the back of the chair, resting
his face on them, with tears of sheer fatigue, tears untouched by
laughter--"I'm so tired. I want to be alone," he sobbed.

The abominable moments that followed were more full of shame for him
than any he had even known:--of shame, and of relief. He had torn his
way, with his words, out of the nest; he had fallen to the ground. He
was ashamed and horrified, yet--oh, the joy, the deep joy of being on
the ground, out in the cold, fresh world, out of the nest.

At last he heard her speak, slowly, softly, with difficulty, as though
she were afraid of angering him. "Shall I go away, Nicholas?"

His face was still hidden. "Yes, do go to bed," he answered.

"I can do nothing for you?"

"Nothing, dear."

"You are not dying?"

"No; I'm not feeling in the least ill."

"You would--send for me--if you were dying?"

"Dear Kitty,--of course."

"And----" she had risen, not daring to draw near, he knew that the
trembling voice came through tears:--"And, you love me? you love me a
little?"

"Dear Kitty--of course I love you."

It was over. She was gone. She had not asked for his good-night kiss. It
was like a sword between them.

He drew a long breath, lifting his head.

Alone. There was ecstasy in the thought.

He walked out into the garden and looked up at the stars as he walked.
There had been no stars in the nest.

He didn't think of death. There had been too much thinking of death;
that was one of the things he was tired of. Still less did he want to
think of Kitty or of himself.

He looked at the stars and thought of them, but not in any manner
emotional or poetical; he thought of astronomical facts, dry, sound,
delightful facts: he looked at the darkened trees and dim flowers and
thought of botany: the earth he trod on was full of scientific interest;
the Pierrots, the fairies and the angels--yes, the angels too--were
vanished. He hungered for impersonal interests and information.

Kitty would, indeed, have thought him mad; after the calming walk he
came in, lit a cigar and sat for hours studying.

Before Kitty was up next morning he was on his way back to London to see
the great specialist.

It was a long