as
he could, and now that it was certain he fought against it still. George
was a true Pendyce!

To the world, however, he behaved as usual. He came to the club about
ten o'clock to eat his breakfast and read the sporting papers. Towards
noon a hansom took him to the railway-station appropriate to whatever
race-meeting was in progress, or, failing that, to the cricket-ground
at Lord's, or Prince's Tennis Club. Half-past six saw him mounting the
staircase at the Stoics' to that card-room where his effigy still hung,
with its look of "Hard work, hard work; but I must keep it going!" At
eight he dined, a bottle of champagne screwed deep down into ice, his
face flushed with the day's sun, his shirt-front and his hair shining
with gloss. What happier man in all great London!

But with the dark the club's swing-doors opened for his passage into the
lighted streets, and till next morning the world knew him no more. It
was then that he took revenge for all the hours he wore a mask. He would
walk the pavements for miles trying to wear himself out, or in the Park
fling himself down on a chair in the deep shadow of the trees, and sit
there with his arms folded and his head bowed down. On other nights
he would go into some music-hall, and amongst the glaring lights, the
vulgar laughter, the scent of painted women, try for a moment to forget
the face, the laugh, the scent of that woman for whom he craved. And
all the time he was jealous, with a dumb, vague jealousy of he knew
not whom; it was not his nature to think impersonally, and he could not
believe that a woman would drop him except for another man. Often he
went to her Mansions, and walked round and round casting a stealthy
stare at her windows. Twice he went up to her door, but came
away without ringing the bell. One evening, seeing a light in her
sitting-room, he rang, but there came no answer. Then an evil spirit
leaped up in him, and he rang again and again. At last he went away to
his room--a studio he had taken near--and began to write to her. He was
long composing that letter, and many times tore it up; he despised
the expression of feelings in writing. He only tried because his heart
wanted relief so badly. And this, in the end, was all that he produced:

"I know you were in to-night. It's the only time I've come. Why couldn't
you have let me in? You've no right to treat me like this. You are
leading me the life of a dog."

GEORGE.

The first light was silv