told himself
so savagely; but still a sense of shame and ingratitude remained.
Lalage, who had suffered so much, and, as he realised now, had suffered,
too, for him, was in that shop, the sort of place where one could spend
one's whole life, and he was going to marry Vera Farlow, and cut the
last slender link between himself and the girl he had once loved, was
going to make her a last present, of money, and ask her not to write
again.

Jimmy let himself into the cottage, fully determined to go through with
the task there and then, to write the letter almost before he had time
to think, and to post it immediately. Yet dawn found him still sitting
at his desk with a pile of cigarette ends and an empty decanter on the
tray, and a blank sheet of paper in front of him. At last, he got up
with a sigh, extinguished the lamp, and stumbled wearily to bed. It was
not that the spirit had affected him--he felt he would have given
anything to have it do so--but he was utterly exhausted mentally, and,
the moment he lay down, he went into a heavy, dreamless sleep, which
lasted until ten o'clock.

When Jimmy awakened in the morning the first thing he remembered was
that he had promised to meet Vera at eleven. He would have no time for
breakfast, but that did not trouble him, as he would have eaten nothing
in any case. His meal, however, was not the only matter which would have
to be left over. He would only have just sufficient time to shave and
dress and walk up to Drylands; consequently, as he told himself with an
undeniable sense of relief, his letter to Lalage must be put off until
the evening, if not until the following day.

Vera did not seem to notice anything unusual in his appearance, or, if
she did, she made no remark on it; but when they met Ethel a little
later, that lady scanned his face anxiously, and took the first
opportunity of calling him aside.

"You didn't sleep, Jimmy. You're worrying about something," she said,
bluntly.

Jimmy made a rather unsuccessful attempt to laugh. "I'm taking on
responsibilities," he said. "I realise it now, and the letter to Canon
Farlow is still unwritten, although I must do it before the afternoon
post goes out. Vera had better help me, I think. Did you write to May?"

"Last night, after you had gone," Ethel answered. "It went by the
nine-thirty this morning, so May will know before she goes to bed
to-night." Then she went back to the subject of himself. "What is it you
are worr