he had thought to be only his fancy had been
his death-knell, wafted to him along uncharted waves of ether, from the
battlements of Tankerton. It had ceased at daybreak. He wondered now
that he had not guessed its meaning. And he was glad that he had not.
He was thankful for the peace that had been granted to him, the joyous
arrogance in which he had gone to bed and got up for breakfast. He
valued these mercies the more for the great tragic irony that came of
them. Aye, and he was inclined to blame the gods for not having kept him
still longer in the dark and so made the irony still more awful. Why had
they not caused the telegram to be delayed in transmission? They
ought to have let him go and riddle Zuleika with his scorn and his
indifference. They ought to have let him hurl through her his defiance
of them. Art aside, they need not have grudged him that excursion.

He could not, he told himself, face Zuleika now. As artist, he saw that
there was irony enough left over to make the meeting a fine one. As
theologian, he did not hold her responsible for his destiny. But as a
man, after what she had done to him last night, and before what he had
to do for her to-day, he would not go out of his way to meet her. Of
course, he would not actually avoid her. To seem to run away from her
were beneath his dignity. But, if he did meet her, what in heaven's
name should he say to her? He remembered his promise to lunch with The
MacQuern, and shuddered. She would be there. Death, as he had said,
cancelled all engagements. A very simple way out of the difficulty would
be to go straight to the river. No, that would be like running away. It
couldn't be done.

Hardly had he rejected the notion when he had a glimpse of a female
figure coming quickly round the corner--a glimpse that sent him walking
quickly away, across the road, towards Turl Street, blushing violently.
Had she seen him? he asked himself. And had she seen that he saw her?
He heard her running after him. He did not look round, he quickened his
pace. She was gaining on him. Involuntarily, he ran--ran like a hare,
and, at the corner of Turl Street, rose like a trout, saw the pavement
rise at him, and fell, with a bang, prone.

Let it be said at once that in this matter the gods were absolutely
blameless. It is true they had decreed that a piece of orange-peel
should be thrown down this morning at the corner of Turl Street. But
the Master of Balliol, not the Duke, was the