nceived after the Colonel left him up on the hillside at Beaulieu. He
worked at it with a sort of evil joy. Into this creature he would put
the spirit of possession that held her from him. And while his fingers
forced the clay, he felt as if he had Cramier's neck within his grip.
Yet, now that he had resolved to take her if he could, he had not quite
the same hatred. After all, this man loved her too, could not help it
that she loathed him; could not help it that he had the disposition of
her, body and soul!

June had come in with skies of a blue that not even London glare and
dust could pale. In every square and park and patch of green the air
simmered with life and with the music of birds swaying on little boughs.
Piano organs in the streets were no longer wistful for the South; lovers
already sat in the shade of trees.

To remain indoors, when he was not working, was sheer torture; for he
could not read, and had lost all interest in the little excitements,
amusements, occupations that go to make up the normal life of man. Every
outer thing seemed to have dropped off, shrivelled, leaving him just a
condition of the spirit, a state of mind.

Lying awake he would think of things in the past, and they would mean
nothing--all dissolved and dispersed by the heat of this feeling in
him. Indeed, his sense of isolation was so strong that he could not
even believe that he had lived through the facts which his memory
apprehended. He had become one burning mood--that, and nothing more.

To be out, especially amongst trees, was the only solace.

And he sat for a long time that evening under a large lime-tree on a
knoll above the Serpentine. There was very little breeze, just enough
to keep alive a kind of whispering. What if men and women, when they had
lived their gusty lives, became trees! What if someone who had burned
and ached were now spreading over him this leafy peace--this blue-black
shadow against the stars? Or were the stars, perhaps, the souls of men
and women escaped for ever from love and longing? He broke off a branch
of the lime and drew it across his face. It was not yet in flower, but
it smelled lemony and fresh even here in London. If only for a moment he
could desert his own heart, and rest with the trees and stars!

No further letter came from her next morning, and he soon lost his power
to work. It was Derby Day. He determined to go down. Perhaps she would
be there. Even if she were not, he might find s