excuse
for him. His heart was sore to breaking-point; he was sick with longing,
and deep, angry wonder that he, of all men, should be cast aside like a
worn-out glove. Men tired of women daily--that was the law. But what
was this? His dogged instinct had fought against the knowledge as long
as he could, and now that it was certain he fought against it still.
George was a true Pendyce!

To the world, however, he behaved as usual. He came to the club about
ten o'clock to eat his breakfast and read the sporting papers. Towards
noon a hansom took him to the railway-station appropriate to whatever
race-meeting was in progress, or, failing that, to the cricket-ground at
Lord's, or Prince's Tennis Club. Half-past six saw him mounting the
staircase at the Stoics' to that card-room where his effigy still hung,
with its look of "Hard work, hard work; but I must keep it going!" At
eight he dined, a bottle of champagne screwed deep down into ice, his
face flushed with the day's sun, his shirt-front and his hair shining
with gloss. What happier man in all great London!

But with the dark the club's swing-doors opened for his passage into the
lighted streets, and till next morning the world knew him no more. It
was then that he took revenge for all the hours he wore a mask. He would
walk the pavements for miles trying to wear himself out, or in the Park
fling himself down on a chair in the deep shadow of the trees, and sit
there with his arms folded and his head bowed down. On other nights he
would go into some music-hall, and amongst the glaring lights, the vulgar
laughter, the scent of painted women, try for a moment to forget the
face, the laugh, the scent of that woman for whom he craved. And all the
time he was jealous, with a dumb, vague jealousy of he knew not whom; it
was not his nature to think impersonally, and he could not believe that a
woman would drop him except for another man. Often he went to her
Mansions, and walked round and round casting a stealthy stare at her
windows. Twice he went up to her door, but came away without ringing the
bell. One evening, seeing a light in her sitting-room, he rang, but there
came no answer. Then an evil spirit leaped up in him, and he rang again
and again. At last he went away to his room--a studio he had taken
near--and began to write to her. He was long composing that letter, and
many times tore it up; he despised the expression of feelings in writing.
He only trie