He should not occupy
the room after to-morrow. In
his own home some days would pass
before his household began to make
inquiries. He had told his servants
that he was going over to Paris for a
change. He would be safe and deep
in his pauper's grave a week before
they asked each other why they did
not hear from him. All was in
order. One of the mocking agonies
was that living was done for. He
had ceased to live. Work, pleasure,
sun, moon, and stars had lost their
meaning. He stood and looked at
the most radiant loveliness of land
and sky and sea and felt nothing.
Success brought greater wealth each
day without stirring a pulse of
pleasure, even in triumph. There
was nothing left but the awful days
and awful nights to which he knew
physicians could give their scientific
name, but had no healing for. He
had gone far enough. He would go
no farther. To-morrow it would
have been over long hours. And
there would have been no public
declaiming over the humiliating
pitifulness of his end. And what did it
matter?
How thick the fog was outside--
thick enough for a man to lose himself
in it. The yellow mist which
had crept in under the doors and
through the crevices of the window-
sashes gave a ghostly look to the
room--a ghastly, abnormal look, he
said to himself. The fire was
smouldering instead of blazing. But
what did it matter? He was going
out. He had not bought the pistol
last night--like a fool.
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