er. He staggered back from that vision, could not bear it, could not
recognise this calamity. With a sort of comfort, yet an aching sense of
unreality, his mind flew to all those summer holidays spent in Scotland,
Ireland, Cornwall, Wales, by mountain and lake, with his two girls; what
sunsets, and turning leaves, birds, beasts, and insects they had watched
together! From their youthful companionship, their eagerness, their
confidence in him, he had known so much warmth and pleasure. If all
those memories were true, surely this could not be true. He felt
suddenly that he must hurry back, go straight to Noel, tell her that she
had been cruel to him, or assure himself that, for the moment, she had
been insane: His temper rose suddenly, took fire. He felt anger against
her, against every one he knew, against life itself. Thrusting his hands
deep into the pockets of his thin black overcoat, he plunged into that
narrow glowing tunnel of the station booking-office, which led back to
the crowded streets. But by the time he reached home his anger had
evaporated; he felt nothing but utter lassitude. It was nine o'clock,
and the maids had cleared the dining table. In despair Noel had gone up
to her room. He had no courage left, and sat down supperless at his
little piano, letting his fingers find soft painful harmonies, so that
Noel perhaps heard the faint far thrumming of that music through uneasy
dreams. And there he stayed, till it became time for him to go forth to
the Old Year's Midnight Service.

When he returned, Pierson wrapped himself in a rug and lay down on the
old sofa in his study. The maid, coming in next morning to "do" the
grate, found him still asleep. She stood contemplating him in awe; a
broad-faced, kindly, fresh-coloured girl. He lay with his face resting
on his hand, his dark, just grizzling hair unruffled, as if he had not
stirred all night; his other hand clutched the rug to his chest, and his
booted feet protruded beyond it. To her young eyes he looked rather
appallingly neglected. She gazed with interest at the hollows in his
cheeks, and the furrows in his brow, and the lips, dark-moustached and
bearded, so tightly compressed, even in. sleep. Being holy didn't make a
man happy, it seemed! What fascinated her were the cindery eyelashes
resting on the cheeks, the faint movement of face and body as he
breathed, the gentle hiss of breath escaping through the twitching
nostrils. She moved n