Philip groaned; he knew what the general would say when the news of his son's desertion of his wife and four year old boy reached him. He knew that he never could explain to his father the absolute torture of the last four years of enervating domesticity and business mediocrity--the torture of the Beauty within him crying for expression, half satisfied by the stolen evenings at the art school but constantly growing stronger in its all-consuming appeal. No, life to his father was a simple problem in army ethics--a problem in which duty was "a", one of the known factors; "x," the unknown, was either "bravery" or "cowardice" when brought in contact with "a". Having solved this problem, his father had closed the book; of the higher mathematics, and especially of those complex problems to which no living man knew the final answer, he had no conception. And yet---- Philip resumed his reading to avoid the old endless maze of subtleties. "It is not that I did not--or do not--love you. It is, rather, that something within me is crying out--something which is stronger than I, and which I cannot resist. I have waited two years to be sure. Yesterday, as soon as I reached here, I took my work to the man who is considered the finest art critic in Paris. He told me that there was a quality to my painting which he had seen in that of no living artist; he told me that in five years of hard work I should be able to produce work which Botticelli would be proud to have done. Do you understand that, Mary--Botticelli! "But no, forgive me. My paean of joy comes strangely in a letter which should be of abject humility for what must seem to you, to father, and to all, a cowardly, selfish act of desertion--a whining failure to face life. Oh dear, dear Mary if you could but understand what a hell I have been through--" Philip took his pen and crossed out the last line so that no one could read what had been there. "Materially, of course, you and little George will be better off; the foolish pride with which I refused to let your parents help us now no longer stands in their way. You should have no difficulty about a divorce. "You can dispose of my things as you see fit; there is nothing I care about keeping which I did not bring. "Again, Mary, I cannot ask you to forgive, or even to understand, but I do hope that you will believe me when I say that this act of mine is the most honest thing I have ever done, and that to have acted out the tragi-comedy in the part of a happy contented husband would have made of both of our lives a bitter useless farce. Sincerely, Philip." He folded the pages and addressed the envelope. "Pardon, Monsieur"--a whiff of sulphur came to his nose as the waiter bent over the table to light the gas above him. "Would Monsieur like to see the journal? There is a most amusing story about---- The bill, Monsieur? Yes--in a moment."