nd in the end, the spectre self, cold and
bloodless conqueror, slipped back into the soul which remorse and
terror, love and pity, a last impulse of hope, a last stirring of
manhood, had been alike powerless to save.

The February dawn was just beginning when he dragged himself to a table
and wrote.

Then for hours afterward he sat sunk in his chair, the stupor of fatigue
broken every now and then by a flash of curious introspection. It was
a base thing which he had done--it was also a strange thing
psychologically--and at intervals he tried to understand it--to track it
to its causes.

At nine o'clock he crept out into the frosty daylight, found a
commissionaire who was accustomed to do errands for him, and sent him
with a letter to Lerwick Gardens.

On his way back he passed a gunsmith's, and stood looking fascinated
at the shining barrels. Then he moved away, shaking his head, his eyes
gleaming as though the spectacle of himself had long ago passed the
bounds of tragedy--become farcical even.

'I should only stand a month--arguing--with my finger on the trigger.'

In the little hall his landlady met him, gave a start at the sight of
him, and asked him if he ailed and if she could do anything for him. He
gave her a sharp answer and went upstairs, where she heard him dragging
books and boxes about as though he were packing.

A little later Rose was standing at the dining-room window of No. 27,
looking on to a few trees bedecked with rime which stood outside. The
ground and roofs were white, a promise of sun was struggling through
the fog. So far everything in these unfrequented Campden Hill roads was
clean, crisp, enlivening, and the sparkle in Rose's mood answered to
that of nature.

Breakfast had just been cleared away. Agnes was upstairs with Mrs.
Leyburn. Catherine, who was staying in the house for a day or two,
was in a chair by the fire, reading some letters forwarded to her from
Bedford Square.

He would appear some time in the morning, she supposed. With an
expression half rueful, half amused, she fell to imagining his
interview, with Catherine, with her mother. Poor Catherine! Rose feels
herself happy enough to allow herself a good honest pang of remorse for
much of her behavior to Catherine this winter; how thorny she has been,
how unkind often, to this sad changed sister. And now this will be a
fresh blow! 'But afterward, when she has got over it--when she knows
that it makes me happy,--that noth