nd was silent
for a minute, half dozing; then she seemed suddenly to become conscious
of his presence, and the words began to flow from her tongue, every one
cutting him to the quick, poisoning his soul with their venom of
jealousy and vulgar spite. Contention was the breath of her nostrils;
the prime impulse of her heart was suspicion. Little by little she came
round to the wonted topic. Had he been to see his friend the thief? Was
she in prison again yet? Whom had she been stealing from of late? Oh,
she was innocence itself, of course; too good for this evil-speaking
world.

Tonight he could not bear it. He rose from his chair like a drunken
man, and staggered to the door. She sprang after him, but he was just
in time to escape her grasp and spring down the stairs; then, out into
the night. Once before, not quite a month ago, he had been driven thus
in terror from the sound of her voice, and had slept at a coffeehouse.
Now, as soon as he had got out of the street and saw that he was not
being pursued, he discovered that he had given away his last copper for
the omnibus fare. No matter; the air was pleasant upon his throbbing
temples. It was too late to think of knocking at the house where
Waymark lodged. Nothing remained but to walk about the streets all
night, resting on a stone when he became too weary to go further,
sheltering a little here or there when the wind cut him too keenly.
Rather this, oh, a thousand times rather, than the hell behind him.

CHAPTER XXXVI

NO WAY BUT THIS

In the early days of October, Waymark's book appeared. It excited no
special attention. Here and there a reviewer was found who ventured to
hint that there was powerful writing in this new novel, but no one
dared to heartily recommend it to public attention. By some it was
classed with the "unsavoury productions of the so-called naturalist
school;" others passed it by with a few lines of unfavourable comment.
Clearly it was destined to bring the author neither fame nor fortune.

Waymark was surprised at his own indifference. Having given a copy to
Casti, and one to Maud, he thought very little more of the production.
It had ceased to interest him; he felt that if he were to write again
it would be in a very different way and of different people. Even when
he prided himself most upon his self-knowledge he had been most
ignorant of the direction in which his character was developing.
Unconsciously, he had struggled to the ext