--refuse that
long agony for yourself and her, while there is still time.
_Kismet--Kismet!_'

And spread out before Langham's shrinking soul there lay a whole dismal
Hogarthian series, image leading to image, calamity to calamity, till in
the last scene of all the maddened inward sight perceived two figures,
two gray and withered figures, far apart, gazing at each other with cold
and sunken eyes across dark rivers of sordid irremediable regret.

The hours passed away, and in the end, the spectre self, a cold and
bloodless conqueror, slipped back into the soul which remorse and
terror, love and pity, a last impulse of hope, a last stirring of
manhood, had been alike powerless to save.

The February dawn was just beginning when he dragged himself to a table
and wrote.

Then for hours afterwards he sat sunk in his chair, the stupor of
fatigue broken every now and then by a flash of curious introspection.
It was a base thing which he had done--it was also a strange thing
psychologically; and at intervals he tried to understand it, to track it
to its causes.

At nine o'clock he crept out into the frosty daylight, found a
commissionaire who was accustomed to do errands for him, and sent him
with a letter to Lerwick Gardens.

On his way back he passed a gunsmith's, and stood looking fascinated at
the shining barrels. Then he moved away, shaking his head, his eyes
gleaming as though the spectacle of himself had long ago passed the
bounds of tragedy--become farcical even.

'I should only stand a month--arguing--with my finger on the trigger.'

In the little hall his landlady met him, gave a start at the sight of
him, and asked him if he ailed and if she could do anything for him. He
gave her a sharp answer and went upstairs, where she heard him dragging
books and boxes about as though he were packing.

A little later Rose was standing at the dining-room window of No. 27,
looking on to a few trees bedecked with rime which stood outside. The
ground and roofs were white, a promise of sun was struggling through the
fog. So far everything in these unfrequented Campden Hill roads was
clean, crisp, enlivening, and the sparkle in Rose's mood answered to
that of Nature.

Breakfast had just been cleared away. Agnes was upstairs with Mrs.
Leyburn. Catherine, who was staying in the house for a day or two, was
in a chair by the fire reading some letters forwarded to her from
Bedford Square.

He would appear some time in the mo