that he had ever encountered. And now, at
intervals, as he walked along, he put his hand to the pocket to assure
himself that it was still in place. Presently he reached Broadway. That
thoroughfare, which on earlier Sundays was wont to be one of the
sedatest avenues of the city, was starred with globes of azure light,
and its quiet was broken by the passing of orange-colored cars. On the
corner he stopped and looked at his watch. It was after seven. Then,
instead of continuing his way up-town, he turned down in the direction
of the Battery. His head was slightly bent, and as he walked he had the
appearance of one perplexed. It was a delightful evening. The sky was as
blue as the eyes of a girl beloved. The air was warm, and had the street
been less noisy, less garish, and a trifle cleaner it might have been an
agreeable promenade. But to Tristrem the noise, the dirt, the glare, the
sky itself were part and parcel of the non-existent. He neither saw nor
heeded, and, though the air was warm, now and then he shivered.

It seemed to him impossible that he should do this thing. And yet, since
that night at Riva, his mind had been as a stage in which it was in
uninterrupted rehearsal. If it were unsuccessful, then come what sorrow
could. But even though its success were assured, might not the success
be worse than failure, and viler to him than the most ignoble defeat?
Meditatively he looked at his hand; it was slight as a girl's.

"I cannot," he said, and even as he said it he knew that he would. Had
he not said it ten thousand times of times before? It was not what he
willed, it was what he must. He was in the lap of a necessity from
which, struggle as he might, he could not set himself free. He might
make what resolutions he chose, but the force which acted on him and in
him snuffed them out like candles. And yet, what had he done to fate
that it should impel him to this? Why had he been used as he had? What
wrong had he committed? For the past twelvemonth his life had been a
continuous torture. Truly, he could have said, "no one save myself, in
all the world, has learned the acuity of pain. I alone am its
depository."

"And yet," he mused, "perhaps it is right. Long ago, when I was
comparing my nothingness to her beauty, did I not know that to win her I
must show myself worthy of the prize? She will think that I am when I
tell her. Yes, she must think so when it is done. But will it be done? O
God, I cannot."

For th