elf it would not be right to allow his death to stop my life?

"Write and say you forgive me, John. Reply by return, and make yourself
your own postman--registered. You'll find me here at Rosa's. Come, come,
come! I'll never forgive you if you don't come soon--never, never!

"Glory."

XII.

A fortnight had passed, and John Storm had not yet visited Glory.
Nevertheless, he had heard of her from day to day through the medium of
the newspapers. Every morning he had glanced down the black columns for
the name that stood out from them as if its letters had been printed in
blood. The reports had been many and mysterious. First, the brilliant
young artiste, who had made such an extraordinary impression some months
before, had returned to London and would shortly resume the promising
career which had been interrupted by illness and family bereavement.
Next, the forthcoming appearance would be on the regular stage, and in a
Shakespearian character, which was always understood to be a crucial test
of histrionic genius. Then, the revival of Romeo and Juliet, which had
formerly been in contemplation, would probably give way to the still more
ambitious project of an entirely new production by a well-known
Scandinavian author, with a part peculiarly fitted to the personality and
talents of the _debutante_. Finally, a syndicate was about to be formed
for the purchase of some old property, with a view to its reconstruction
as a theatre, in the interests of the new play and the new player.

John Storm laughed bitterly. He told himself that Glory was unworthy of
the least of his thoughts. It was his duty to go on with his work and
think of her no more.

He had received his official notice to quit. The church was to be given
up in a month, the clergy-house in two months, and he believed himself to
be immersed in preparations for the rehousing of the club and home.
Twenty young mothers and their children now lived in the upper rooms,
under obedience to the Sisterhood, but Polly's boy had remained with Mrs.
Pincher. From time to time he had seen the little one tethered to a chair
by a scarf about its waist, creeping by the wall to the door, and there
gazing out on the world with looks of intelligence, and babbling to it in
various inarticulate noises. "Boo-loo! Lal-la! Mum-um!" The little dark
face had the eyes of its mother, but it represented Glory for all that.
John Storm loved to see it. He felt that he could never part with