t all. He had not slept; his head was hot, and
his hands shook nervously. Dressed, he sat down for a minute, and
remained seated half an hour, gazing at the wall. When at length he
left the house, he walked without seeing anything, stumbling against
things and people.

Of course, he knew last night that there was no journey for him to-day.
Promise? A promise is void when its fulfilment has become impossible.
Very likely Mallard had a conviction that he would not come back at the
appointed time. To-morrow, perhaps; and perhaps not even to-morrow It
had got beyond his control.

He ate, and returned to his room. Just now his need was physical
repose, undisturbed indulgence of reverie. And the reverie of a man in
his condition is a singular process. It consists of a small number of
memories, forecasts, Imaginings, repeated over and over again, till one
would think the brain must weary itself beyond endurance. It can go on
for many hours consecutively, and not only remain a sufficient and
pleasurable employment, but render every other business repulsive, all
but impossible.

At evening there came a change. He was now unable to keep still; he
went into the town, and exhausted himself with walking up and down the
hilly streets. Society would have helped him, but he could find none.
He would not go to the villa; still less could he visit the
boarding-house.

What a night! At times he moved about his room like one in frantic
pain, finally flinging himself upon the bed and lying there till the
impulse of his fevered mind broke the beginnings of sleep. Or he walked
the length of the floor, with measured step, fifty times, counting each
time he turned--a sort of conscious insanity. Or he took his
pocket-knife, and drove the point into the flesh of his arm, satisfied
when the pang became intolerable. Then again a loss of all control in
mere frenzy, the desire to shout, to yell....

Elgar was out of the house at sunrise. He went down to the Chiaia,
loitered this way and that, always in the end facing towards Posillipo.
He drank his coffee, but ate nothing; then again walked along the
sea-front. Between nine and ten he turned into the upward road, and
went with purpose towards Villa Sannazaro.

CHAPTER IX

IN THE DEAD CITY

Through it was Sunday, Cecily resolved to go and spend the afternoon
with Miriam. She was restless, and could not take pleasure in Mrs.
Lessingham's conversation. Possibly her arrival at the vill