lippers, and settled down before the fire to reread the letter and
examine the enclosed bills, and ponder and worry over them at his ease.
To have leisure to worry over perplexities was something; to worry in
such luxury as this seemed something so very near to happiness that as
he refolded the last bill for household expenses he smiled faintly to
himself.

Boots's three tabby-cats were disposed comfortably before the blaze,
fore paws folded under, purring and blinking lazily at the grate. All
around were evidences of Boots's personal taste in pretty wall-paper and
hangings, a few handsome Shiraz rugs underfoot, deep, comfortable
chairs, low, open bookcases full of promising literature--the more
promising because not contemporary.

Selwyn loved such a room as this--where all was comfort, and nothing in
the quiet, but cheerful, ensemble disturbed the peaceful homeliness.

Once--and not very long since--he had persuaded himself that there had
been a chance for him to have such a home, and live in it--_not_ alone.
That chance had gone--had never really existed, he knew now. For sooner
or later he must have awakened from the pleasant dreams of
self-persuasion to the reality of his relentless responsibility. No,
there had never been such a chance; and he thanked God that he had
learned before it was too late that for him there could be no earthly
paradise, no fireside _a deux_, no home, no hope of it.

As long as Alixe lived his spiritual responsibility must endure. And
they had just told him that she might easily outlive them all.

He turned heavily in his chair and stared at the fire. Perhaps he saw
infernal visions in the flames; perhaps the blaze meant nothing more to
him than an example of chemical reaction, for his face was set and
colourless and vacant, and his hands lay loosely along the padded arms
of his easy-chair.

The hardest lesson he had to learn in these days was to avoid thinking.
Or, if he must surrender to the throbbing, unbidden memories which came
crowding in hordes to carry him by the suddenness of their assault, that
he learn to curb and subdue and direct them in pity toward that
hopeless, helpless, stricken creature who was so utterly dependent upon
him in her dreadful isolation.

And he could not so direct them.

Loyal in act and deed, his thoughts betrayed him. Memories, insurgent,
turned on him to stab him; and he shrank from them, cowering among his
pillows at midnight. But memory is merc