myself before I can do anything,' was his
thought as he finally abandoned the endeavour. 'I must make up my mind.'

To this end he settled himself in an easy-chair and began to smoke
cigarettes. Some dozen of these aids to reflection only made him so
nervous that he could no longer remain alone. He put on his hat and
overcoat and went out--to find that it was raining heavily. He returned
for an umbrella, and before long was walking aimlessly about the Strand,
unable to make up his mind whether to turn into a theatre or not.
Instead of doing so, he sought a certain upper room of a familiar
restaurant, where the day's papers were to be seen, and perchance an
acquaintance might be met. Only half-a-dozen men were there, reading and
smoking, and all were unknown to him. He drank a glass of lager beer,
skimmed the news of the evening, and again went out into the bad
weather.

After all it was better to go home. Everything he encountered had an
unsettling effect upon him, so that he was further than ever from the
decision at which he wished to arrive. In Mornington Road he came upon
Whelpdale, who was walking slowly under an umbrella.

'I've just called at your place.'

'All right; come back if you like.'

'But perhaps I shall waste your time?' said Whelpdale, with unusual
diffidence.

Reassured, he gladly returned to the house. Milvain acquainted him
with the fact of John Yule's death, and with its result so far as it
concerned the Reardons. They talked of how the couple would probably
behave under this decisive change of circumstances.

'Biffen professes to know nothing about Mrs Reardon,' said Whelpdale. 'I
suspect he keeps his knowledge to himself, out of regard for Reardon. It
wouldn't surprise me if they live apart for a long time yet.'

'Not very likely. It was only want of money.'

'They're not at all suited to each other. Mrs Reardon, no doubt, repents
her marriage bitterly, and I doubt whether Reardon cares much for his
wife.'

'As there's no way of getting divorced they'll make the best of it. Ten
thousand pounds produce about four hundred a year; it's enough to live
on.'

'And be miserable on--if they no longer love each other.'

'You're such a sentimental fellow!' cried Jasper. 'I believe you
seriously think that love--the sort of frenzy you understand by
it--ought to endure throughout married life. How has a man come to your
age with such primitive ideas?'

'Well, I don't know. Perhaps you err a