ll a little stupefied. It did not occur to him
to go to the Club, or to look up any friends, and he remained in the
little hotel in Jermyn Street, filled at this time of the year
principally by Americans, and he dined alone there--dined well, and
smoked a long cigar. Then he went for a walk. London at the beginning of
August was not empty, but stale, crowded, untidy, hot--unlike itself. He
tried not to think of the garden of the Green Gate. Suddenly, with a
stab, he imagined Harry and Valentia; probably now he was telling her
that the engagement was broken off, and she was smiling and happy. Well!
it was what he wished. Since what had happened he felt his great love
for Valentia was much less vivid than it had been. He cared for her more
remotely. She seemed at a great distance. He thought that he felt more
to her as if she were a dear sister and living far away. Yes, that was
it; he loved her now like a sister.

Surprised at his own calm, and much pleased with his behaviour in the
matter, he retired to bed. The instant he had closed his eyes he seemed
to see, with the clearness of an hallucination, Harry's head bending low
over the writing-table, and, hanging above him on the wall of the
studio, the curious dagger; a Japanese weapon that was one of Harry's
treasures. And Romer felt again precisely the same horrible longing that
he had felt that morning at the studio--the sudden longing to plunge it
into Harry's neck. Horrified at the fancy and at himself, he turned up
the light and tried to read. He could not fix his attention on a word of
the article "Silk and Stuff" in the _Pall Mall_....

Of course he was not angry with Valentia; how could she help it? She
must be made happy. But she seemed dim, distant, remote. It was an
effort to recall her face.... Harry--Harry did not seem very real to him
either. It was all unreal. But he, Romer, had done the right thing.
Harry would never make her cry again.

Everything would go on as before. And _he_ had never said a word that it
would be painful for them both to remember. There was nothing
uncomfortable between them. He felt she would grow tired of Harry of her
own accord, and would then return to him, Romer, with no disagreeable
recollection of scenes, nor of their having said horrible things to one
another. Yes, he had been quite right. Yet she did not seem to him so
near as she used to be. He was not angry with her.... No, of course not.
He was not jealous. Perhaps she