That light step in the hall, that eager voice, that quick flutter in the doorway—are silent for ever. Bugle and I will never hear them again. For the last time Jo has leaned over my shoulder, sat by my side at meat, put her sweet arms about me and kissed my lips. She had a way, I remember, of holding her little hands—when she was specially interested, sharing some venture of mine. “Yes, Richard? Yes?” she’ld cry, with her precious lips parted and a light in her blessed grey eyes that made me feel heroic and turned my twopenny tale into an exploit. It was always like that. Always her fresh, panting spirit lifted me up. Whatever the road, her footsteps made it shine. I’m not a dancer, but I could dance with Jo. And now—finish . . . _finish_. ‘Finish.’ The word stares at me with a queer, crooked look. I never thought of it before, but what a funny-looking word it is. It looks as though it ought to have two n’s. ‘Finish.’ Never mind. The point is that several things are over. My dancing days, for instance. And the light in Jo’s grey eyes. And the little way she had of—_My God!_ What shall I do? How shall I live and move? I’m like a man in the dark in a dangerous place. I don’t know which way to turn. I’m left . . . left. Everything I did was with Jo, or for Jo, or because of Jo. I moved round her, as planets move round their sun. And now my sun’s gone . . . my sun . . . my glorious sun. . . . I must pull myself together. I’ve done it before. I mustn’t gibber and crouch. I must stand up and look Fate in the eyes. I’ve done that before, too. And she shrank back, as she shall shrink back now. Jo, my wife, has gone to another man. What of it? I shall be lonely, of course. The little house’ll seem strange, I shall go more to the Club, as I used to do—before I was married. I shall have to order the meals and keep the servants more or less up to the mark. And the evenings will seem a bit long. And when I go—to Scotland, there won’t be any occasion to hurry back. And that—that’s about all. I think I’ll keep her things just as they are. I mustn’t get maudlin, but I think that I can do that. Just keep them out and about. It’ll seem more natural. And after a while they can gradually be put away . . . after a while. . . . And now I must go to bed. I must go to ‘The Office’ to-morrow and, before I go, I must get out a short report. I meant to have done it to-night, but it’s too late now. She was so exquisite, Jo was . . . so beautiful, gay, sweet . . . so proud to all the world, so tender to me . . . I’ld ’ve said I was too old for her, only she lifted me up and made me a child. Berwick Perowne. I hardly know the man, except by name. I’ve only met him twice. Once that night at the Meurices’ and once again at the Ritz. I wonder where—— I must go to bed. I must let old Bugle out and go to bed. The great thing is not to think. If Jo were here, I should—— I must go to—_God! My God! I can’t_. . . .