readers as he might still retain that he had hopelessly
written himself out, and was now endeavouring to adapt himself to an
inferior public. In spite of his dire necessities he now and then hoped
that Jedwood might refuse the thing.

At moments he looked with sanguine eagerness to the three or four months
he was about to spend in retirement, but such impulses were the mere
outcome of his nervous disease. He had no faith in himself under
present conditions; the permanence of his sufferings would mean the sure
destruction of powers he still possessed, though they were not at
his command. Yet he believed that his mind was made up as to the
advisability of trying this last resource; he was impatient for the day
of departure, and in the interval merely killed time as best he might.
He could not read, and did not attempt to gather ideas for his next
book; the delusion that his mind was resting made an excuse to him for
the barrenness of day after day. His 'Pliny' article had been despatched
to The Wayside, and would possibly be accepted. But he did not trouble
himself about this or other details; it was as though his mind could do
nothing more than grasp the bald fact of impending destitution; with the
steps towards that final stage he seemed to have little concern.

One evening he set forth to make a call upon Harold Biffen, whom he had
not seen since the realist called to acknowledge the receipt of a copy
of 'Margaret Home' left at his lodgings when he was out. Biffen resided
in Clipstone Street, a thoroughfare discoverable in the dim district
which lies between Portland Place and Tottenham Court Road. On knocking
at the door of the lodging-house, Reardon learnt that his friend was at
home. He ascended to the third storey and tapped at a door which allowed
rays of lamplight to issue from great gaps above and below. A sound of
voices came from within, and on entering he perceived that Biffen was
engaged with a pupil.

'They didn't tell me you had a visitor,' he said. 'I'll call again
later.'

'No need to go away,' replied Biffen, coming forward to shake hands.
'Take a book for a few minutes. Mr Baker won't mind.'

It was a very small room, with a ceiling so low that the tall lodger
could only just stand upright with safety; perhaps three inches
intervened between his head and the plaster, which was cracked, grimy,
cobwebby. A small scrap of weedy carpet lay in front of the fireplace;
elsewhere the chinky boards were un