Malcolm was having a bad time just then. The excitement of the Jacobi
episode had roused him for a while, but now natural reaction had set
in, and the deadness and dulness of his daily routine oppressed him
intolerably. Nothing interested him--nothing gave him pleasure. His
literary work, the society of his friends, even his nightly "smokes"
with the faithful Goliath, were like the dust and bitterness of the
apples of Sodom. The present was like the desert of Sahara to him, and
the future a perfect cavern of gloom.

He was tired of himself and every one else, and, though he did not know
it, his nerves were unstrung, and he could not always control his
irritability.

But he did his best, and fought his "foul fiend" gallantly. "He is a
good divine that follows his own instructions," he would say grimly,
when he compelled himself to make fresh efforts. Anything was better
than brooding, he thought. And in the evenings he would resist the
temptation to yield to his weariness and to take possession of his
easy-chair.

For he knew too well that at such hours he was not master of his
thoughts, and that in fancy the empty chair opposite to him would not
long be unoccupied.

How often had he pictured Elizabeth there as the companion of his
solitude--how often had her bright face, with its changing expression,
come between him and his book! And in the gloaming her pleasant voice,
with its quick breaks and hesitation, its characteristic abruptness,
had sounded in his ears. Sometimes he would walk to and fro in a
perfect agony of impatience and passionate rebellion against his fate.
"I am possessed, but it is with an angel in woman's shape," he would
say to himself; "and yet she is no angel either--she is far too human.
And her faults--oh well," with a dreary laugh, "her faults are
Elizabethan too." But once, when the bitterness of his pain was too
great, he muttered to himself a strange thing.

"It is I who ought to be in his place," he said. "She is
bewitched--David Carlyon's simplicity and goodness have bewitched
her--but he is not her rightful mate." And then he struck himself
fiercely on the breast and whispered, "He is here--he is here,
Elizabeth!"

But in spite of his inward sadness he would not spare himself, and
every week he went as usual to Queen's Gate to dine with his mother.
But the long evenings tried him, and he found it difficult to hide his
ennui and weariness from his mother's sharp eyes. One evening, j