ut upon the gray dawn-lit streets, haggard, and
with a gnawing fear at his heart. He was unnerved. The ordinary sounds
of the waking household, the street cries outside, the rattling of
carts, jarred upon him. He glanced in the looking-glass, and was
startled at his own reflection. Softly he opened the door and made his
way into the room where Eleanor lay.

Her deep-brown hair lay about the pillow in some confusion. One long
white arm, thin but graceful, hung over the coverlet. Her face,
notwithstanding its pallor, was like the face of a little child. A
certain, almost pathetic, sharpness of outline, which in the days of his
first acquaintance with her had been only too noticeable, seemed to him
to have faded away. Her closed eyes were no longer windows through which
shone the tragical misery of her bitter life. The lines about her mouth
and forehead had all been smoothed away. And with these
things--something else. He found himself struggling with a sense of
unfamiliarity. After all, it was still Eleanor. If only he could
persuade himself of it.

He looked at her long and steadily. Then he left the room and entered
the library. For a time he sat at his desk, irresolute. More than once
he drew note-paper toward him and dipped his pen in the ink. He was
wholly unaccustomed to this indecision. Yet the way before him, which
had seemed so clear only a short while back, seemed now beset with
anxieties. It was not technical skill or knowledge that he needed. So
far as these were concerned, his self-confidence was unimpaired. Only a
new sense of responsibility, a strange new web of fears, seemed suddenly
to have paralyzed his enthusiasm.

For the first time in his life he felt the need for advice--the stimulus
of sympathy. Yet for hours that note remained unwritten. He was unable
to account for his hesitation. The man whom he was about to summon would
approve of all that he had done. He was sure of that. Yet he was
oppressed by the shadow of some nameless fear, some instinct that seemed
to be doing its utmost to warn him against this course which, from any
ordinary point of view, was both natural and advisable. Afterward those
hours of hesitation ranked as history with him. At the time he was
ashamed of them.

The note was written at last, and despatched by an urgent messenger. He
bathed, changed his clothes, and ate some breakfast. Just as he had
finished, a small brougham stopped at the door. Doctor Trowse was
announced