ng alone, and nobody caring a damn, and everybody believing me a
cad and a bully. But I got over that. It was Beatty's death that hit me
so hard, and that I wasn't there. It's that, somehow, I can't get
over--that you did it--that you could have had the heart. It would
always come between us. No, we're better apart. But I'll tell you
something to comfort you. I've given up that girl, as I've told you, and
I've given up drink. Herbert won't believe it, but he'll find it is so.
And I don't mean to die before my time. I'm going out to Switzerland
directly. I'll do all the correct things. You see, when a man _knows_
he's going to die, well," he turned away, "he gets uncommonly curious as
to what's going to come next."

He walked up and down a few turns. Daphne watched him.

"I'm not pious--I never was. But after all, the religious people profess
to know something about it, and nobody else does. Just supposing it were
true?"

He stopped short, looking at her. She understood perfectly that he had
Beatty in his mind.

"Well, anyhow, I'm going to live decently for the rest of my time--and
die decently. I'm not going to throw away chances. And don't trouble
yourself about money. There's enough left to carry me through. Good-bye,
Daphne!" He held out his hand to her.

She took it, still dumbly weeping. He looked at her with pity.

"Yes, I know, you didn't understand what you were doing. But you see,
Daphne, marriage is----" he sought rather painfully for his words, "it's
a big thing. If it doesn't make us, it ruins us; I didn't marry you for
the best of reasons, but I was very fond of you--honour bright! I loved
you in my way, I should have loved you more and more. I should have been
a decent fellow if you'd stuck to me. I had all sorts of plans; you
might have taught me anything. I was a fool about Chloe Fairmile, but
there was nothing in it, you know there wasn't. And now it's all rooted
up and done with. Women like to think such things can be mended, but
they can't--they can't, indeed. It would be foolish to try."

Daphne sank upon a chair and buried her face in her hands. He drew a
long and painful breath. "I'm afraid I must go," he said waveringly.
"I--I can't stand this any longer. Good-bye, Daphne, good-bye."

She only sobbed, as though her life dissolved in grief. He drew near to
her, and as she wept, hidden from him, he laid his hand a moment on her
shoulder. Then he took up his hat.

"I'm going now," he said i