uncertain, movement to follow her,
did not, however, carry it out, and sank back into his former attitude.
His cold hands were deep in his pockets, his shoulders drawn up; and
his face, drained of its blood, was like the face of an old man. He had
made no attempt to defend himself, had sat mute, letting her vindictive
words go over him, inwardly admitting their truth. Now he closed his
eyes, and kept them shut, until the thudding of his heart grew less
forcible. When he looked up again, his gaze met the muddy, sluggish
water, into which she had dared him to throw himself. But he did not
even recall her taunt. He merely sat and stared at the river, amazed at
the way in which it had, as it were, detached itself from other
objects. All at once it had acquired a life of its own, and it was
difficult to believe that it had ever been an integral part of the
landscape.

He remained sitting till the mists were breast-high. But even when,
after more than one start--for his legs were stiff and numbed--he rose
to go home, he did not realise what had happened to him. He was only
aware that night had fallen, and that it would be better to get back in
the direction of the town.

The twinkling street-lamps did more than anything towards rousing him.
But they also made him long, with a sudden vehemence, for some warm,
brightly lighted interior, where it would be possible to forget the
night--haunted river. He sought out an obscure cafe, and entering,
called for brandy. On this night, he was under no necessity to limit
himself; and he sat, glowering at the table, and emptying his glass,
until he had died a temporary, and charitable, death. The delicious
sensation of sipping the brandy was his chief remembrance of these
hours; but, also, like far-off, incorporate happenings, he was
conscious, as the night deepened, of women's shrill and lively voices,
and of the pressure of a woman's arms.

XIII.

He wakened, the next morning, to strange surroundings. Half opening his
eyes, he saw a strip of drab wall-paper, besprinkled with crude pink
roses, and the black and gilt frame of an oblong mirror. He shut them
again immediately, preferring to believe that he was still dreaming.
Somewhere in the back of his head, a machine was working, with slow,
steady throbs, which made his body vibrate as a screw does a steamer.
He lay enduring it, and trying to sleep again, to its accompaniment.
But just as he was on the point of dozing off, a