, for a chair, and sank into it. Crossing his arms on the
table, he rested his head on them. Had he been a weaker man he might
have pitied himself. He had always contended that a man who could not
bear pain and adversity had a "yellow streak" in him. He had once had a
painful operation performed without an anesthetic, and he now told
himself that he simply must master the things within and without him
which had combined to overthrow him. He ground his teeth together. He
clenched his fingers till the nails of some of them broke.

He closed his eyes. He tried to imagine that he was becoming drowsy and
that he would soon sleep, but a thousand pictures floated through his
brain and dug themselves in like burrowing animals. Chief among them was
a view of Whaley striding about the Square, uttering slobbering
anathemas against him. Another scene was that of Tilly's receiving the
revelation he himself had shrunk from making. He saw the blight fall on
her bonny face and her calm and inevitable consent to abandon him
forever. And yet how could he bear _that_--exactly _that_? He groaned
against the smooth surface of the table. He was ashamed of his frailty,
for the mastery of himself seemed farther off, almost an impossibility.

The iron latch of the gate clicked. A heavy step grated on the gravel
walk. He sat up straight and listened. The cast-iron door-bell rang.
There was a pause, then a step sounded in the hall. Some one was
entering unbidden and stalking into the house.

"Oh, John--Johnny, my boy! Where are you?" It was Cavanaugh's voice
filled with fluttering grief, tenderness, dismay.

"Here I am!" John did not rise. "Here, in the dining-room."

"But the light--the light. Why don't you--"

Cavanaugh broke off as he stood in the doorway. He paused there for a
moment, as if wondering what state a light would reveal the crouched
form of his friend to be in.

"I don't want a light, Sam," John muttered. "You can have one if you
want it. Here are some matches--but, no, I'll light up. When I came in I
was so tired that I sat down here a minute, and--well, I must have--have
dropped asleep. But what the hell's the use to lie to _you_?" He struck
a match and held it to the gas-jet over the table beneath the gaudy
porcelain shade. His writhing face, in the sudden flare of light, was
white, holding a tint even of green. He sank back into his chair. "No,
I won't lie, Sam. Besides, if you haven't already heard you will soon
enough