t Sorrento--he had intoxicating memories of them all! Slowly the warmth
of the brandy died away, and, despite the heat, he felt chill and
shuddery. He shut his eyes, thinking to sleep till she came in. But
very soon he opened them, because--a thing usual with him of late--he saw
such ugly things--faces, vivid, changing as he looked, growing ugly and
uglier, becoming all holes--holes--horrible holes--Corruption--matted,
twisted, dark human-tree-roots of faces! Horrible! He opened his eyes,
for when he did that, they always went. It was very silent. No sound
from above. No sound of the dogs. He would go up and see the baby.

While he was crossing the hall, there came a ring. He opened the door
himself. A telegram! He tore the envelope.

"Gyp and the baby are with me letter follows.--WINTON."

He gave a short laugh, shut the door in the boy's face, and ran upstairs;
why--heaven knew! There was nobody there now! Nobody! Did it mean that
she had really left him--was not coming back? He stopped by the side of
Gyp's bed, and flinging himself forward, lay across it, burying his face.
And he sobbed, as men will, unmanned by drink. Had he lost her? Never
to see her eyes closing and press his lips against them! Never to soak
his senses in her loveliness! He leaped up, with the tears still wet on
his face. Lost her? Absurd! That calm, prim, devilish Englishman, her
father--he was to blame--he had worked it all--stealing the baby!

He went down-stairs and drank some brandy. It steadied him a little.
What should he do? "Letter follows." Drink, and wait? Go to Bury
Street? No. Drink! Enjoy himself!

He laughed, and, catching up his hat, went out, walking furiously at
first, then slower and slower, for his head began to whirl, and, taking a
cab, was driven to a restaurant in Soho. He had eaten nothing but a
biscuit since his breakfast, always a small matter, and ordered soup and
a flask of their best Chianti--solids he could not face. More than two
hours he sat, white and silent, perspiration on his forehead, now and
then grinning and flourishing his fingers, to the amusement and sometimes
the alarm of those sitting near. But for being known there, he would
have been regarded with suspicion. About half-past nine, there being no
more wine, he got up, put a piece of gold on the table, and went out
without waiting for his change.

In the streets, the lamps were lighted, but daylight was not quite gone.