ism. If only he had been an isolated soul
he would not have felt so keenly. But the course of his life had
reacted on others and embittered their existence. It seemed as if he
could not take a step without wounding those who loved him. He was not
fit to breathe the same air with them, he told himself.

Of Margaret he scarce dared think, so great was his sense of his
unworthiness; but the light of her face, as it swam up before him,
thrilled him with the consciousness that his love for her was abiding,
that this affair on which he had embarked was a grotesque nightmare in
which his true being had not been concerned at all, though it had
become irredeemably involved in it. Once or twice it had given him
pleasure to imagine that it was in Helen's power to do more than just
sympathise with him, but then he had never forgotten that was only a
wistful fancy. It brought the tears to his eyes to think of her
attempt to cheer him with her prophecy of happiness for him. Happiness
for him! Dream as vain as his Cleo's lust for glory!

It was past ten o'clock, and the sea-front was already deserted. He
strolled eastward, following the roadway to where the houses ended,
when it swept round the foot of the cliff, on whose top rose the
ancient castle, and eventually degenerated into an ascending foot-path
protected by a wooden rail. He stayed awhile at the bend, gazing into
the immense darkness, in which, here and there, glimmered a light from
a passing vessel, and listening to the swish of the water lapping the
foot of the sea-wall. A fisherman preparing his bait hailed him
"Good-night!" from the glooms of a small, primitive jetty. He returned
the salute civilly, but, as he was not in the mood for human
intercourse, he sang out and wished the man a good haul and then
moved on. Up, up the incline he went, the rugged cliff-front towering
above him, clothed with great grey patches. The path narrowed as it
wound its way up the side and at length ran into the cliff, through
which a long gallery had been hewn. But the solid blackness that faced
him at its mouth did not give him pause. He felt his way along,
stumbling up the rough incline, and turned down another gallery which
intersected this one at right angles, and which led to the face of the
cliff where its opening, high above the water, was barred by a tall
iron rail. Here he stood and looked out to sea.

The nocturne was beautiful in its largeness and silence. The sublimity
of the