ested that he
really preferred taking his rest on a hard hall-chair with an hour's nap
in bed before rising at six o'clock.

Sophy sighed as she went upstairs. All her exultant feeling of the
evening had been only another illusion. The time was out of joint again.
As she passed Chesney's door, a thick, heavy smell of lamp-smoke made
her turn. She tried the knob softly. The door opened, and the nauseous
smell flooded her. Yes; he had gone to sleep still poring over that
odious book. The lamp, almost burnt out, was sending up a thick,
brownish smoke--the wick, barely moist with oil, was fringed with little
mushrooms of fire. Sophy extinguished the lamp and stood gazing down at
her husband. He had been a magnificent looking man, three years ago. He
was still handsome, but in the way that a fine stallion is still
handsome when its withers and back begin to sink. It was as if he were
sinking in on himself--as if the great muscles and sinews were relaxing
like elastic that has been over-used. Holding the candle closer, Sophy
gazed and gazed at him. It was as if she were gazing at a stranger.
There was a fine spangling of sweat on his broad forehead; as he
breathed his lips puffed in and out. They looked dry and cracked. He
slept heavily, as though his veins held lead, as though his limbs were
weighted. The solid heaviness of his sleep struck her as appalling. And,
suddenly, what Olive had told her rushed over her again. Standing
motionless, her eyes took frightened scurries about the room, over the
bed, the dressing-table, the little stand that supported the lamp. A
glass and bottle that had held cognac stood empty. She bent closer--then
suddenly drew back ashamed. She was not like Psyche spying on Love with
her candle; but a woman gazing at defenceless sensuality--at the
degraded body that had once housed love. An immense pity came over her.
She felt that she had been guilty towards him--guilty of staring at his
bare degradation with calm eyes while he lay unconscious. She was not
being his wife but a cold critic. And perhaps--perhaps, it was only she
who could save him, who could restore to him his real self.

Setting down her candle, she drew away the obscene book from under his
heavy hands, closed it, and laid it to one side. He did not stir or
mutter. Then she knelt down beside him, hiding her face against the bed.
She wished to pray for him and for herself. But her thoughts scattered,
whirled with the coiling sparkles