her　cheek。　　So　she　often　slept。　　Even　when　life　seemed　all　at　sea；
  its　landmarks　lost；　one　still　did　what　was　customary。　　Poor　tender…
  hearted　thingshe　had　not　slept　since　he　told　her；　forty…eight
  hours；　that　seemed　such　years；　ago！　　With　her　flaxen　hair；　and　her
  touching　candour；　even　in　sleep；　she　looked　like　a　girl　lying
  there；　not　so　greatly　changed　from　what　she　had　been　that　summer　of
  Cicely's　marriage　down　at　Hayle。　　Her　face　had　not　grown　old　in　all
  those　twenty…eight　years。　　There　had　been　till　now　no　special
  reason　why　it　should。　　Thought；　strong　feeling；　suffering；　those
  were　what　changed　faces；　Sylvia　had　never　thought　very　deeply；
  never　suffered　much；　till　now。　　And　was　it　for　him；　who　had　been
  careful　of　hervery　careful　on　the　whole；　despite　man's
  selfishness；　despite　her　never　having　understood　the　depths　of　him
  was　it　for　him　of　all　people　to　hurt　her　so；　to　stamp　her　face
  with　sorrow；　perhaps　destroy　her　utterly？
  He　crept　a　little　farther　in　and　sat　down　in　the　arm…chair　beyond
  the　fire。　　What　memories　a　fire　gathered　into　it；　with　its　flaky
  ashes；　its　little　leaf…like　flames；　and　that　quiet　glow　and
  flicker！　　What　tale　of　passions！　　How　like　to　a　fire　was　a　man's
  heart！　　The　first　young　fitful　leapings；　the　sudden；　fierce；
  mastering　heat；　the　long；　steady　sober　burning；　and　thenthat　last
  flaming…up；　that　clutch　back　at　its　own　vanished　youth；　the　final
  eager　flight　of　flame；　before　the　ashes　wintered　it　to　nothing！
  Visions　and　memories　he　saw　down　in　the　fire；　as　only　can　be　seen
  when　a　man's　heart；　by　the　agony　of　long　struggle；　has　been
  stripped　of　skin；　and　quivers　at　every　touch。　　Love！　　A　strange
  haphazard　thing　was　loveso　spun　between　ecstacy　and　torture！　　A
  thing　insidious；　irresponsible；　desperate。　　A　flying　sweetness；
  more　poignant　than　anything　on　earth；　more　dark　in　origin　and
  destiny。　　A　thing　without　reason　or　coherence。　　A　man's　love…life
  what　say　had　he　in　the　ebb　and　flow　of　it？　　No　more　than　in　the
  flights　of　autumn　birds；　swooping　down；　alighting　here　and　there；
  passing　on。　　The　loves　one　left　behindeven　in　a　life　by　no　means
  vagabond　in　love；　as　men's　lives　went！　　The　love　that　thought　the
  Tyrol　skies　would　fall　if　he　were　not　first　with　a　certain　lady。
  The　love　whose　star　had　caught　in　the　hair　of　Sylvia；　now　lying
  there　asleep。　　A　so…called　lovethat　half…glamorous；　yet　sordid
  little　meal　of　pleasure；　which　youth；　however　sensitive；　must　eat；
  it　seems；　some　time　or　other　with　some　young　light　of　lovea
  glimpse　of　life　that　beforehand　had　seemed　much　and　had　meant
  little；　save　to　leave　him　disillusioned　with　himself　and　sorry　for
  his　partner。　　And　then　the　love　that　he　could　not；　even　after
  twenty　years；　bear　to　remember；　that　all…devouring　summer　passion；
  which　in　one　night　had　gained　all　and　lost　all　terribly；　leaving　on
  his　soul　a　scar　that　could　never　be　quite　healed；　leaving　his
  spirit　always　a　little　lonely；　haunted　by　the　sense　of　what　might
  have　been。　　Of　his　share　in　that　night　of　tragedythat　'terrible
  accident　on　the　river'no　one　had　ever　dreamed。　　And　then　the　long
  despair　which　had　seemed　the　last　death　of　love　had　slowly　passed；
  and　yet　another　love　had　been　bornor　rather　born　again；　pale；
  sober；　but　quite　real；　the　fresh　springing…up　of　a　feeling　long
  forgotten；　of　that　protective　devotion　of　his　boyhood。　　He　still
  remembered　the　expression　on　Sylvia's　face　when　he　passed　her　by
  chance　in　Oxford　Street；　soon　after　he　came　back　from　his　four
  years　of　exile　in　the　East　and　Romethat　look；　eager；　yet
  reproachful；　then　stoically　ironic；　as　if　saying：　'Oh；　no！　after
  forgetting　me　four　years　and　moreyou　can't　remember　me　now！'　　And
  when　he　spoke；　the　still　more　touching　pleasure　in　her　face。　　Then
  uncertain　months；　with　a　feeling　of　what　the　end　would　be；　and　then
  their　marriage。　　Happy　enoughgentle；　not　very　vivid；　nor
  spiritually　very　intimatehis　work　always　secretly　as　remote　from
  her　as　when　she　had　thought　to　please　him　by　putting　jessamine
  stars　on　the　heads　of　his　beasts。　　A　quiet　successful　union；　not
  meaning；　he　had　thought；　so　very　much　to　him　nor　so　very　much　to
  heruntil　forty…eight　hours　ago　he　told　her；　and　she　had　shrunk；
  and　wilted；　and　gone　all　to　pieces。　　And　what　was　it　he　had　told
  her？
  A　long　storythat！
  Sitting　there　by　the　fire；　with　nothing　yet　decided；　he　could　see
  it　all　from　the　start；　with　its　devilish；　delicate　intricacy；　its
  subtle　slow　enchantment　spinning　itself　out　of　him；　out　of　his　own
  state　of　mind　and　body；　rather　than　out　of　the　spell　cast　over　him；
  as　though　a　sort　of　fatal　force；　long　dormant；　were　working　up
  again　to　burst　into　dark　flower。　。　。　。
  II
  Yes；　it　had　begun　within　him　over　a　year　ago；　with　a　queer　unhappy
  restlessness；　a　feeling　that　life　was　slipping；　ebbing　away　within
  reach　of　him；　and　his　arms　never　stretched　out　to　arrest　it。　　It
  had　begun　with　a　sort　of　long　craving；　stilled　only　when　he　was
  working　harda　craving　for　he　knew　not　what；　an　ache　which　was
  worst　whenever　the　wind　was　soft。
  They　said　that　about　forty…five　was　a　perilous　age　for　a　man
  especially　for　an　artist。　　All　the　autumn　of　last　year　he　had　felt
  this　vague　misery　rather　badly。　　It　had　left　him　alone　most　of
  December　and　January；　while　he　was　working　so　hard　at　his　group　of
  lions；　but　the　moment　that　was　finished　it　had　gripped　him　hard
  again。　　In　those　last　days　of　January　he　well　remembered　wandering
  about　in　the　parks　day　after　day；　trying　to　get　away　from　it。　　Mild
  weather；　with　a　scent　in　the　wind！　　With　what　avidity　he　had
  watched　children　playing；　the　premature　buds　on　the　bushes；
  anything；　everything　youngwith　what　an　ache；　too；　he　had　been
  conscious　of　innumerable　lives　being　lived　round　him；　and　loves
  loved；　and　he　outside；　unable　to　know；　to　grasp；　to　gather　them；
  and　all　the　time　the　sands　of　his　hourglass　running　out！　　A　most
  absurd　and　unreasonable　feeling　for　a　man　with　everything　he
  wanted；　with　work　that　he　loved；　quite　enough　money；　and　a　wife　so
  good　as　Sylviaa　feeling　that　no　Englishman　of　forty…six；　in
  excellent　health；　ought　for　a　moment　to　have　been　troubled　with。　　A
  feeling　such　as；　indeed；　no　Englishman　ever　admitted　havingso
  that　there　was　not　even；　as　yet；　a　Society　for　its　suppression。
  For　what　was　this　disquiet　feeling；　but　the　sense　that　he　had　had
  his　day；　would　never　again　know　the　stir　and　fearful　joy　of　falling
  in　love；　but　only　just　hanker　after　what　was　past　and　gone！　　Could
  anything　be　more　reprehensible　in　a　married　man？
  It　wasyesthe　last　day　of　January；　when；　returning　from　one　of
  those　restless　rambles　in　Hyde　Park；　he　met　Dromore。　　Queer　to
  recognize　a　man　hardly　seen　since　school…days。　　Yet　unmistakably；
  Johnny　Dromore；　sauntering　along　the　rails　of　Piccadilly　on　the
  Green　Park　side；　with　that　slightly　rolling　gait　of　his　thin；
  horseman's　legs；　his　dandified　hat　a　little　to　one　side；　those
  strange；　chaffing；　goggling　eyes；　that　look；　as　if　making　a
  perpetual　bet。　　Yesthe　very　same　teasing；　now　moody；　now
  reckless；　always　astute　Johnny　Dromore；　with　a　good　heart　beneath
  an　outside　that　seemed　ashamed　of　it。　　Truly　to　have　shared　a　room
  at　schoolto　have　been　at　College　together；　were　links
  mysteriously　indestructible。
  〃Mark　Lennan！　　By　gum！　haven't　seen　you　for　ages。　　Not　since　you
  turned　out　a　full…blownwhat　d'you　call　it？　　Awfully　glad　to　meet
  you；　old　chap！〃　　Here　was　the　past　indeed；　long　vanished　in　feeling
  and　thought　and　all；　and　Lennan's　head　buzzed；　trying　to　find　some
  common　interest　with　this　hunting；　racing　man…about…town。
  Johnny　Dromore　come　to　life　againhe　whom　the　Machine　had　stamped
  with　astute　simplicity　by　the　time　he　was　twenty…two；　and　for　ever
  after　left　untouched　in　thought　and　feelingJohnny　Dromore；　who
  would　never　pass　beyond　the　philosophy　that　all　was　queer　and
  freakish　which　had　not　to　do　with　horses；　women；　wine；　cigars；
  jokes；　good…heartedness；　and　that　perpetual　bet；　Johnny　Dromore；
  who；　somewhere　in　him；　had　a　pocket　of　depth；　a　streak　of　hunger；
  that　was　not　just　Johnny　Dromore。
  How　queer　was　the　sound　of　that　jerky　talk！
  〃You　ever　see　old　Fookes　now？　　Been　racin'　at　all？　　You　live　in
  Town？　　Remember　good　old　Blenker？〃　　And　then　silence；　and　then
  another　spurt：　〃Ever　go　down　to　'Bambury's？'　　Ever　go　racin'？　。　。　。
  Come　on　up　to　my　'digs。'　　You've　got　nothin'　to　do。〃　　No　persuading
  Johnny　Dromore　that　a　'what　d'you　call　it'　could　have　anything　to
  do。　　〃Come　on；　old　chap。　　I've　got　the　hump。　　It's　this　damned　east
  wind。〃
  Well　he　remembered　it；　when　they　shared　a　room　at　'Bambury's'that
  hump　of　Johnny　Dromore's；　after　some　reckless　spree　or　bout　of
  teasing。
  And　down　that　narrow　bye…street　of　Piccadilly　he　had　gone；　and　up
  into　those　'digs'　on　the　first　floor；　with　their　little　dark　hall；
  their　Van　Beers'　drawing　and　Vanity　Fair　cartoons；　and　prints　of
  racehorses；　and　of　the　old　Nightgown　Steeplechase；　with　the　big
  chairs；　and　all　the　paraphernalia　of　Race　Guides　and　race…glasses；
  fox…masks　and　stags'…horns；　and　hunting…whips。　　And　yet；　something
  that　from　the　first　moment　struck　him　as　not　quite　in　keeping；
  foreign　to　the　picturea　little　jumble　of　books；　a　vase　of
  flowers；　a　grey　kitten。
  〃Sit　down；　old　chap。　　What'll　you　drink？〃
  Su