He was so clever that he had always been bottom at school--all great men had been bottom at school. Then he had lost his way in the world. No, that wasn’t true, he had found it--this, this gin was his triumph. It was the only thing that did his health any good, and one had to be in good spirits if he was to think out the book, the great book that was to link everything into a circle and that would bring him recognition at last, perhaps even a letter from the Bishop. It would justify his taking something now and again as he did. But one doubted, there were days when one could not see it at all. How ill he felt. Some deep-seated disorder. How dreadful a disease, cancer. Why could not the doctors do something about it? Oh, for a pulpit to say it from. Terrible, terrible. “Father, where did you put the tin-opener for these sardines?” “I don’t know. My pain. Never had it.” “But it must be somewhere. It isn’t in the cupboard here.” “Can’t you open it with a fork? It’s all laziness. Why bother me? Oh, here it is in my pocket. How funny.” “You are drinking all the gin. No, look here, you mustn’t have any more. There will be none for this evening at this rate.” “But I’m not going to drink any more, I tell you. Leave me alone.” “Oh, yes. Here, give me that bottle.” “I shan’t; I want it, I tell you. My health.” “Give it me.” You could be firm with him in the morning. She locks up the bottle in the cupboard, slips the key inside her dress, and begins to open the sardines. He is almost in tears, “insulted, by a girl, my daughter. When it was for the good of my health, as I was ill.” But he wasn’t such a fool, oh no. He had a dozen beneath the floor of the study. He had wanted to drink more lately, and the girl always regulated his bottle a day carefully. “Damn, I’ve cut myself with the tin-opener.” There is a gash in her thumb, and she bleeds into the oil which floats over the sardines. Serve her right, now she would get blood-poisoning, her hand would swell and go purple, and it would hurt. They would die in agony together. Think of the headlines in the evening papers, the world would hear of him at last: “AMAZING DISCOVERY IN LONELY COTTAGE,” then lower down, “UNFROCKED GENIUS AND HIS BEAUTIFUL DAUGHTER FOUND DEAD.” Beautiful. Was she? Yes, of course she was, as good as anyone’s daughter anyway, except for the scar. The scar, it was like a bad dream, he had a hazy memory of her taunting him, of his throwing the bottle and missing, and of throwing one of the broken bits, and of catching her with it on the cheek. It was horrible. Still it was what a genius would have done. He was so weak this morning. What was he thinking about? Yes, suicide, and the headlines in the papers. But in any case it would be over in three days. What was the use of it all? And what was he eating, blood-stained sardine? He did feel sick. Cancer.