the lamp early and open their
books beside a cheerful fire. But then the rain came, a persistent,
soaking rain. Milly always went to her district on Tuesdays, no matter
what the weather, and this time she caught a cold. Ian urged her to stop
in bed next morning. He himself had to be in College early, and could
not come home till the afternoon.

It was still raining and the early falling twilight was murky and brown.
The dull yellow glare of the street-lamps was faintly reflected in the
muddy wetness of pavements and streets. He was carrying a great armful
of books and papers under his dripping mackintosh and umbrella. As he
walked homeward as fast as his inconvenient load allowed, he became
acutely conscious of a depression of spirits which had been growing upon
him all day. It was the weather, he argued, affecting his nerves or
digestion. The vision of a warm, cosey house, a devoted wife awaiting
him, ought to have cheered him, but it did not. He hoped he would not
feel irritable when Milly rushed into the hall as soon as his key was
heard in the front door, to feel him all over and take every damp thread
tragically. Poor dear Milly! What a discontented brute of a husband she
had got! The fault was no doubt with himself, and he would not really be
happy even if some miracle did set him down on a sunny Mediterranean
shore, with enough money to live upon and nothing to think of but his
book. Mildred used to say that she always went to a big dinner at Durham
in the unquenchable hope of meeting and fascinating some millionaire who
had sense enough to see how much better it would be to endow writers of
good books than readers of silly ones.

With the recollection there rang in the ears of his mind the sound of a
laugh which he had not heard for seventeen months. Something seemed to
tighten about his heart. Yes, he could be quite happy without the
millionaire, without the sunny skies, without even the pretty,
comfortable home at whose door he stood, if somewhere, anywhere, he
could hope to hear that laugh again, to hold again in his arms the
strange bright bride who had melted from them like snow in
spring-time--but that way madness lay. He thrust the involuntary longing
from him almost with horror, and turned the latch-key in his door.

The hall lamp was burning low and the house seemed very chilly and
quiet. He put his books down on the oak table, threw his streaming
mackintosh upon the large chest, and went up to his dr