steps at a
time, as a young married man when he comes home will run up to his
wife's room.

Everything was dainty, fresh, sweet-smelling; everything in perfect
order. On the great bed with its lilac silk quilt, was the bag she had
made and embroidered with her own hands to hold her sleeping things; her
slippers ready at the foot; the sheets even turned over at the head as
though expecting her.

On the table stood the silver-mounted brushes and bottles from her
dressing bag, his own present. There must, then, be some mistake. What
bag had she taken? He went to the bell to summon Bilson, but remembered
in time that he must assume knowledge of where Irene had gone, take it
all as a matter of course, and grope out the meaning for himself.

He locked the doors, and tried to think, but felt his brain going round;
and suddenly tears forced themselves into his eyes.

Hurriedly pulling off his coat, he looked at himself in the mirror.

He was too pale, a greyish tinge all over his face; he poured out water,
and began feverishly washing.

Her silver-mounted brushes smelt faintly of the perfumed lotion she used
for her hair; and at this scent the burning sickness of his jealousy
seized him again.

Struggling into his fur, he ran downstairs and out into the street.

He had not lost all command of himself, however, and as he went down
Sloane Street he framed a story for use, in case he should not find her
at Bosinney's. But if he should? His power of decision again failed; he
reached the house without knowing what he should do if he did find her
there.

It was after office hours, and the street door was closed; the woman who
opened it could not say whether Mr. Bosinney were in or no; she had not
seen him that day, not for two or three days; she did not attend to him
now, nobody attended to him, he....

Soames interrupted her, he would go up and see for himself. He went up
with a dogged, white face.

The top floor was unlighted, the door closed, no one answered his
ringing, he could hear no sound. He was obliged to descend, shivering
under his fur, a chill at his heart. Hailing a cab, he told the man to
drive to Park Lane.

On the way he tried to recollect when he had last given her a cheque;
she could not have more than three or four pounds, but there were her
jewels; and with exquisite torture he remembered how much money she
could raise on these; enough to take them abroad; enough for them to
live on for months! He