care for anything without her! That's what brought us here, to France, to Bordeaux—her illness. The doctors said she must pass the spring out of England, away from the March winds, in the South; and I begged and borrowed money enough to take her. And we were on our way to Arcachon; but when we reached Bordeaux she was too ill to continue the journey, and—she died here."
We walked on for some distance in silence, then he added: "That was four years ago. You wonder why I live to tell you of it, why I haven't cut my throat. I don't know whether it's cowardice or conscientious scruples. It seems rather inconsequent to say that I believe in a God, doesn't it?—that I believe one's life is not one's own to make an end of? Anyhow, here I am, keeping body and soul together as musician to a brasserie-à-femmes. I can't go back to England, I can't leave Bordeaux—she's buried here. I've hunted high and low for work, and found it nowhere save in the brasserie-à-femmes. With that, and a little copying now and then, I manage to pay my way."
"But your uncle?" I asked.
"Do you think I would touch a penny of his money?" Pair retorted, almost fiercely. "It was he who began it. My wife let herself die. It was virtual suicide. It was he who created the situation that drove her to it."
"You are his heir, though, aren't you?"
"No, the estates are not entailed."
We had arrived at the door of my hotel. "Well, good-night and bon voyage," he said.
"You needn't wish me bon voyage," I answered. "Of course I'm not leaving Bordeaux for the present."
"Oh, yes, you are. You're going on to Biarritz to-morrow morning, as you intended."
And