strength came back to him in the long employless days of dead darkness, Dick's soul was troubled to the core. Another letter, and another, came from Maisie. Then there was silence, and Dick sat by the window, the pulse of summer in the air, and pictured her being won by another man, stronger than himself. His imagination, the keener for the dark background it worked against, spared him no single detail that might send him raging up and down the studio, to stumble over the stove that seemed to be in four places at once. Worst of all, tobacco would not taste in the darkness. The arrogance of the man had disappeared, and in its place were settled despair that Torpenhow knew, and blind passion that Dick confided to his pillow at night. The intervals between the paroxysms were filled with intolerable waiting and the weight of intolerable darkness.
'Come out into the Park,' said Torpenhow. 'You haven't stirred out since the beginning of things.'
'What's the use? There's no movement in the dark; and, besides,'—he paused irresolutely at the head of the stairs,—'something will run over me.
'Not if I'm with you. Proceed gingerly.'
The roar of the streets filled Dick with nervous terror, and he clung to Torpenhow's arm. 'Fancy
