. That is all I
have to say. Good-night!"

He stood perfectly still until the garden gate closed behind her; then
he sat down and covered his face with both hands.

Another blow on the cheek! Was no rag of pride to be left him--no shred
of self-respect? Surely he had suffered everything that man can endure;
his very heart had been dragged in the mud and trampled under the
feet of the passers-by; there was no spot in his soul where someone's
contempt was not branded in, where someone's mockery had not left
its iron trace. And now this gipsy girl, whom he had picked up by the
wayside--even she had the whip in her hand.

Shaitan whined at the door, and the Gadfly rose to let him in. The
dog rushed up to his master with his usual frantic manifestations of
delight, but soon, understanding that something was wrong, lay down on
the rug beside him, and thrust a cold nose into the listless hand.

An hour later Gemma came up to the front door. No one appeared in answer
to her knock; Bianca, finding that the Gadfly did not want any dinner,
had slipped out to visit a neighbour's cook. She had left the door open,
and a light burning in the hall. Gemma, after waiting for some time,
decided to enter and try if she could find the Gadfly, as she wished to
speak to him about an important message which had come from Bailey. She
knocked at the study door, and the Gadfly's voice answered from within:
"You can go away, Bianca. I don't want anything."

She softly opened the door. The room was quite dark, but the passage
lamp threw a long stream of light across it as she entered, and she
saw the Gadfly sitting alone, his head sunk on his breast, and the dog
asleep at his feet.

"It is I," she said.

He started up. "Gemma,---- Gemma! Oh, I have wanted you so!"

Before she could speak he was kneeling on the floor at her feet and
hiding his face in the folds of her dress. His whole body was shaken
with a convulsive tremor that was worse to see than tears.

She stood still. There was nothing she could do to help him--nothing.
This was the bitterest thing of all. She must stand by and look on
passively--she who would have died to spare him pain. Could she but dare
to stoop and clasp her arms about him, to hold him close against her
heart and shield him, were it with her own body, from all further harm
or wrong; surely then he would be Arthur to her again; surely then the
day would break and the shadows flee away.

Ah, no, no! How could