ad. She was a creature of common clay after all! His
eyes rested for a moment upon her companion, a man well known to him,
though of a class for whom his contempt was great, and with whom he
had no kinship. She was like this then! It was a pity.

His cigarette went out, and a rain-drop, which had been hovering upon
a leaf above him, fell with a splash upon the sheet of heavy white
paper. He rose to his feet, stiff and chilled and disillusioned. His
little ghost-world of fancies had faded away. Morning had come, and
eastwards, a single shaft of cold sunlight had pierced the grey sky.

CHAPTER III

At ten o'clock he breakfasted, after three hours' sleep and a cold
bath. In the bright, yet soft spring daylight, the lines of his face
had relaxed, and the pallor of his cheeks was less unnatural. He was
still a man of remarkable appearance; his features were strong and
firmly chiselled, his forehead was square and almost hard. He wore no
beard, but a slight, black moustache only half-concealed a delicate
and sensitive mouth. His complexion and his soft grey eyes were alike
possessed of a singular clearness, as though they were, indeed, the
indices of a temperate and well-contained life. His dress, and every
movement and detail of his person, were characterized by an extreme
deliberation; his whole appearance bespoke a peculiar and almost
feminine fastidiousness. The few appointments of his simple meal were
the most perfect of their kind. A delicate vase of freshly cut flowers
stood on the centre of the spotless table-cloth,--the hangings and
colouring of the apartment were softly harmonious. The walls were hung
with fine engravings, with here and there a brilliant little
water-colour of the school of Corot; a few marble and bronze
statuettes were scattered about on the mantelpiece and on brackets.
There was nothing particularly striking anywhere, yet there was
nothing on which the eye could not rest with pleasure.

At half-past ten he lit a cigarette, and sat down at his desk. He
wrote quite steadily for an hour; at the end of that time he pinned
together the result of his work, and wrote a hasty note.

"113, PICCADILLY.

"DEAR MR. HASLUP,--

"I went last night to the New Theatre, and I send you my
views as to what I saw there. But I beg that you will
remember my absolute ignorance on all matters pertaining to
the modern drama, and use your own discretion