mahogany, solid and ugly; it would go for
nothing at an auction. There were three or four thousand books, but
everyone knew how badly they sold, and it was not probable that they would
fetch more than a hundred pounds. Philip did not know how much his uncle
would leave, and he reckoned out for the hundredth time what was the least
sum upon which he could finish the curriculum at the hospital, take his
degree, and live during the time he wished to spend on hospital
appointments. He looked at the old man, sleeping restlessly: there was no
humanity left in that shrivelled face; it was the face of some queer
animal. Philip thought how easy it would be to finish that useless life.
He had thought it each evening when Mrs. Foster prepared for his uncle the
medicine which was to give him an easy night. There were two bottles: one
contained a drug which he took regularly, and the other an opiate if the
pain grew unendurable. This was poured out for him and left by his
bed-side. He generally took it at three or four in the morning. It would
be a simple thing to double the dose; he would die in the night, and no
one would suspect anything; for that was how Doctor Wigram expected him to
die. The end would be painless. Philip clenched his hands as he thought of
the money he wanted so badly. A few more months of that wretched life
could matter nothing to the old man, but the few more months meant
everything to him: he was getting to the end of his endurance, and when he
thought of going back to work in the morning he shuddered with horror. His
heart beat quickly at the thought which obsessed him, and though he made
an effort to put it out of his mind he could not. It would be so easy, so
desperately easy. He had no feeling for the old man, he had never liked
him; he had been selfish all his life, selfish to his wife who adored him,
indifferent to the boy who had been put in his charge; he was not a cruel
man, but a stupid, hard man, eaten up with a small sensuality. It would be
easy, desperately easy. Philip did not dare. He was afraid of remorse; it
would be no good having the money if he regretted all his life what he had
done. Though he had told himself so often that regret was futile, there
were certain things that came back to him occasionally and worried him. He
wished they were not on his conscience.

His uncle opened his eyes; Philip was glad, for he looked a little more
human then. He was frankly horrified at the idea that had