ngled sweetness and
sensuality. But Hubert was curiously transformed. There was a dignity,
almost an elevation, in his manner. His former gaiety had vanished. I
knew, without words, that my friend was another man--very far away from
me now. Yet once we had lived together as chums, and had no secrets the
one from the other.

At last Hubert looked up and spoke.

"I see you are wondering about me," he said.

"Yes."

"I have altered, of course--completely altered."

"Yes," I said, awkwardly enough. "Why is that?"

I longed to probe this madness of his that I might convince myself of
it, otherwise Hubert's situation must for ever appal me.

He answered quietly, "I will tell you--nobody else knows--and even you
may--"

He hesitated, then he said:--

"No, you will believe it."

"Yes, if you tell me it is true."

"It is absolutely true.

"Bernard, you know what I was when you left England for America--gay,
frivolous in my pleasures, although earnest when I was working. You know
how I lived to sound the depths of sensation, how I loved to stretch all
my mental and physical capacities to the snapping-point, how I shrank
from no sin that could add one jot or tittle to my knowledge of the mind
of any man or woman who interested me. My life seemed a full life then.
I moved in the midst of a thousand intrigues. I strung beads of all
emotions upon my rosary, and told them until at times my health gave
way. You remember my recurring periods of extraordinary and horrible
mental depression--when life was a demon to me, and all my success in
literature less than nothing; when I fancied myself hated, and could
believe I heard phantom voices abusing me. Then those fits passed away,
and once more I lived as ardently as ever, the most persistent worker,
and the most persistent excitement-seeker in London.

"Well, after you went away I continued my career. As you know, my
success increased. Through many sins I had succeeded in diving very deep
into human hearts of men and women. Often I led people deliberately away
from innocence in order that I might observe the gradual transformation
of their natures. Often I spurred them on to follies that I might see
the effect our deeds have upon our faces--the seal our actions set upon
our souls. I was utterly unscrupulous, and yet I thought myself
good-hearted. You remember that my servants always loved me, that I
attracted people. I can say this to you. For some time my usual course
w