uke waived,
saying that the cashed cheque itself would be a sufficient receipt.
Accordingly, he reduced by one penny the amount written on the cheque.
Remembering to initial the correction, he remembered also, with a
melancholy smile, that to-morrow the cheque would not be negotiable.
Handing it, and the sonnet, to Mrs. Batch, he bade her cash it before
the bank closed. "And," he said, with a glance at his watch, "you have
no time to lose. It is a quarter to four." Only two hours and a quarter
before the final races! How quickly the sands were running out!

Mrs. Batch paused on the threshold, wanted to know if she could "help
with the packing." The Duke replied that he was taking nothing with him:
his various things would be sent for, packed, and removed, within a few
days. No, he did not want her to order a cab. He was going to walk. And
"Good-bye, Mrs. Batch," he said. "For legal reasons with which I won't
burden you, you really must cash that cheque at once."

He sat down in solitude; and there crept over him a mood of deep
depression... Almost two hours and a quarter before the final races!
What on earth should he do in the meantime? He seemed to have done all
that there was for him to do. His executors would do the rest. He had no
farewell-letters to write. He had no friends with whom he was on terms
of valediction. There was nothing at all for him to do. He stared
blankly out of the window, at the greyness and blackness of the sky.
What a day! What a climate! Why did any sane person live in England? He
felt positively suicidal.

His dully vagrant eye lighted on the bottle of Cold Mixture. He ought to
have dosed himself a full hour ago. Well, he didn't care.

Had Zuleika noticed the bottle? he idly wondered. Probably not. She
would have made some sprightly reference to it before she went.

Since there was nothing to do but sit and think, he wished he could
recapture that mood in which at luncheon he had been able to see Zuleika
as an object for pity. Never, till to-day, had he seen things otherwise
than they were. Nor had he ever needed to. Never, till last night, had
there been in his life anything he needed to forget. That woman! As
if it really mattered what she thought of him. He despised himself for
wishing to forget she despised him. But the wish was the measure of the
need. He eyed the chiffonier. Should he again solicit the grape?

Reluctantly he uncorked the crusted bottle, and filled a glass. Was he