en, as he stood with the syringe poised above the opened
capsule, a strange impulse came over him. He thought: "What if I throw
all this stuff into the fire? Just go to bed, take the salicylate--'grin
and bear it'?" His heart beat violently. Then, with a sudden gesture, he
thrust the nose of the syringe into the capsule, and drew the piston up
till the cylinder was filled with the colourless liquid. Each dose of
the solution held half a grain of morphia. He screwed the needle into
place--pushed up his shirt-sleeve.... Another instant and the needle was
home in his flesh. He pressed the piston gently down--withdrew the
needle, and rubbed the puncture with a bit of cotton soaked in spirit.
Then he cleaned the syringe, put a wire through the needle, locked all
away into his travelling-bag, and, after setting the door slightly ajar,
undressed and got into bed. In two minutes the little clutch at his
midriff told him that the morphia was at its work.... Then he called to
Sophy. And as he lay there with slow bliss stealing over him, and heard
her light step coming up the stair, he justified his action to himself
with persistent and plausible reiteration. The pain was already
lessening--he felt tender and affectionate towards Sophy--longed to talk
to her. But he kept saying to himself: "No, no--I must not. I must not,
on any account." So he only smiled at her and moved his head against the
pillow in assent, when she asked if he felt easier, warm in bed like
this. When she sat down in a low chair beside the bed and began to read,
he reached out and took her free hand, holding it, playing with her
rings--that vague smile still on his face.

The rain fell faster and faster--it became a heavy downpour, rattling on
the magnolia leaves outside and veiling the more distant trees. Sophy
read until he seemed dozing--then went down to her lonely dinner in the
ugly little dining-room. Somehow she felt strangely depressed. The
_Mareng_ seemed to have soaked into her very soul.

Chesney stayed in bed three days. He took all the morphia, but he also
took the salicylate prescribed by Camenis. He suffered a good deal from
nausea; but when he got up again, on the morning of the fourth day, his
attack of sciatica was entirely over. He felt abominably weak, though.
On the second day, he had sent Luigi to Pallanza to buy some good
Cognac--a small glass of this revived him. He scrupulously avoided
taking more than a small quantity at a time. He di