she had come to him in his rooms, and had that day been
followed by a secret relationship between them and many hours spent
together, then his passion would have been very genuine and moving.

But, after all, she had flashed into his life, and then flashed
out of it again, and, so swiftly with him did moods follow one upon
another, and ideals and ambitions and despairs and glories jostle
together in his brain, that she might have remained, very happily raised
to a fine altar in his temple, very distantly recognized as a beautiful
episode now closed and contemplated only from a worshipping distance,
had any other figure or incident definitely occupied his attention.

But no figure, no incident had arrived. He had had, during all these
weeks, no drama into which he might fling his fine feelings, his great
ambitions, his glorious sacrifices. Of genuine sincerity were these
moods of his--he had never stood sufficiently beyond himself to arrive
at any definite insincerity about any of his movements or impulses--but
of all things in the world he could not endure that his life should be
empty, and empty now it had been for, as it seemed to his swift
impatience, a long, long time.

Christopher's news did touch him very deeply. He would instantly have
sacrificed his life, his honour, anything at all, for Rachel, and the
fact that he would enjoy the drama of that sacrifice did not rob it of
any atom of its sincerity.

But the pity of it was that he really did not see what he could do. Had
he been able, here and now, to rush into the Portland Place house and
seize his grandmother by the throat and shake her, or had it been
possible to appear before Roddy Seddon, to declare himself the only
culprit, to proclaim that he was ready for any condemnation, any
punishment, then, in spite of all his unhappiness, he would be now a
happy man, but, alas, the only possible action was to pause, to see what
happened, to wait--and waiting it was that sent him mad.

One action indeed _was_ possible and that was that he should put a close
to his wretched existence. On this close and sterile night such an
action did not appear at all absurd. It had fine elements about it, it
would deal a sure blow at his grandmother and all that family who had
treated him so basely. What a headline for the papers! "Suicide of
member of one of England's noblest families!" Rachel should be, no
longer, annoyed with his unfortunate presence: he would make it, of
co