ve that she was; he could not afford to
believe such a reason for her conduct--the thought was not to be faced.

It would be unbearable to contemplate the necessity of making his marital
relations public property. Short of the most convincing proofs he must
still refuse to believe, for he did not wish to punish himself. And all
the time at heart--he did believe.

The moonlight cast a greyish tinge over his figure, hunched against the
staircase wall.

Bosinney was in love with her! He hated the fellow, and would not spare
him now. He could and would refuse to pay a penny piece over twelve
thousand and fifty pounds--the extreme limit fixed in the correspondence;
or rather he would pay, he would pay and sue him for damages. He would
go to Jobling and Boulter and put the matter in their hands. He would
ruin the impecunious beggar! And suddenly--though what connection
between the thoughts?--he reflected that Irene had no money either. They
were both beggars. This gave him a strange satisfaction.

The silence was broken by a faint creaking through the wall. She was
going to bed at last. Ah! Joy and pleasant dreams! If she threw the
door open wide he would not go in now!

But his lips, that were twisted in a bitter smile, twitched; he covered
his eyes with his hands....

It was late the following afternoon when Soames stood in the dining-room
window gazing gloomily into the Square.

The sunlight still showered on the plane-trees, and in the breeze their
gay broad leaves shone and swung in rhyme to a barrel organ at the
corner. It was playing a waltz, an old waltz that was out of fashion,
with a fateful rhythm in the notes; and it went on and on, though nothing
indeed but leaves danced to the tune.

The woman did not look too gay, for she was tired; and from the tall
houses no one threw her down coppers. She moved the organ on, and three
doors off began again.

It was the waltz they had played at Roger's when Irene had danced with
Bosinney; and the perfume of the gardenias she had worn came back to
Soames, drifted by the malicious music, as it had been drifted to him
then, when she passed, her hair glistening, her eyes so soft, drawing
Bosinney on and on down an endless ballroom.

The organ woman plied her handle slowly; she had been grinding her tune
all day-grinding it in Sloane Street hard by, grinding it perhaps to
Bosinney himself.

Soames turned, took a cigarette from the carven box, and walked