club, after telephoning Fuji not to sit up for him. When he felt
like it he used to read in bed, and even smoke in bed. When he went to
town to the theatre, he would spend the night at a hotel to avoid the
fatigue of the long ride on the 11:44 train. He chose a different hotel
each time, so that it was always an Adventure. He had a great deal of
fun.

But having fun is not quite the same as being happy. Even an income of
1000 bones a year does not answer all questions. That charming little
house among the groves and thickets seemed to him surrounded by strange
whispers and quiet voices. He was uneasy. He was restless, and did not
know why. It was his theory that discipline must be maintained in the
household, so he did not tell Fuji his feelings. Even when he was alone,
he always kept up a certain formality in the domestic routine. Fuji
would lay out his dinner jacket on the bed: he dressed, came down to
the dining room with quiet dignity, and the evening meal was served by
candle-light. As long as Fuji was at work, Gissing sat carefully in
the armchair by the hearth, smoking a cigar and pretending to read
the paper. But as soon as the butler had gone upstairs, Gissing
always kicked off his dinner suit and stiff shirt, and lay down on the
hearth-rug. But he did not sleep. He would watch the wings of flame
gilding the dark throat of the chimney, and his mind seemed drawn upward
on that rush of light, up into the pure chill air where the moon was
riding among sluggish thick floes of cloud. In the darkness he heard
chiming voices, wheedling and tantalizing. One night he was walking on
his little verandah. Between rafts of silver-edged clouds were channels
of ocean-blue sky, inconceivably deep and transparent. The air was
serene, with a faint acid taste. Suddenly there shrilled a soft, sweet,
melancholy whistle, earnestly repeated. It seemed to come from the
little pond in the near-by copses. It struck him strangely. It might
be anything, he thought. He ran furiously through the field, and to
the brim of the pond. He could find nothing, all was silent. Then the
whistlings broke out again, all round him, maddeningly. This kept on,
night after night. The parson, whom he consulted, said it was only
frogs; but Gissing told the constable he thought God had something to do
with it.

Then willow trees and poplars showed a pallid bronze sheen, forsythias
were as yellow as scrambled eggs, maples grew knobby with red buds.
Among t