ked. I must try to do better"; and with a touch of bitter
humour, "They are kind enough to think me a good superintendent, you see!
After that I must try hard."

Scorrier broke in: "No man could have done so much for them;" and,
carried away by an impulse to put things absolutely straight, went on
"But, after all, a letter now and then--what does it amount to?"

Pippin besieged him with a subtle glance. "You too?" he said--"I must
indeed have been a wicked man!" and turned away.

Scorrier felt as if he had been guilty of brutality; sorry for Pippin,
angry with himself; angry with Pippin, sorry for himself. He earnestly
desired to see the back of Hemmings. The secretary gratified the wish a
few days later, departing by steamer with ponderous expressions of regard
and the assurance of his goodwill.

Pippin gave vent to no outburst of relief, maintaining a courteous
silence, making only one allusion to his late guest, in answer to a
remark of Scorrier:

"Ah! don't tempt me! mustn't speak behind his back."

A month passed, and Scorrier still--remained Pippin's guest. As each
mail-day approached he experienced a queer suppressed excitement. On one
of these occasions Pippin had withdrawn to his room; and when Scorrier
went to fetch him to dinner he found him with his head leaning on his
hands, amid a perfect fitter of torn paper. He looked up at Scorrier.

"I can't do it," he said, "I feel such a hypocrite; I can't put myself
into leading-strings again. Why should I ask these people, when I've
settled everything already? If it were a vital matter they wouldn't want
to hear--they'd simply wire, 'Manage this somehow!'"

Scorrier said nothing, but thought privately 'This is a mad business!'
What was a letter? Why make a fuss about a letter? The approach of
mail-day seemed like a nightmare to the superintendent; he became
feverishly nervous like a man under a spell; and, when the mail had gone,
behaved like a respited criminal. And this had been going on two years!
Ever since that explosion. Why, it was monomania!

One day, a month after Hemmings' departure, Pippin rose early from
dinner; his face was flushed, he had been drinking wine. "I won't be
beaten this time," he said, as he passed Scorrier. The latter could hear
him writing in the next room, and looked in presently to say that he was
going for a walk. Pippin gave him a kindly nod.

It was a cool, still evening: innumerable stars swarmed in cluster