"I was a happy man before I married--before I was tricked into marriage," he said. "I might have married in such a fashion as would have gained for me a real helpmate; someone who understood me--someone who would have lifted me up--inspired me. But circumstances I can't explain prevented that; she went (I mean the woman I really loved) into the arms of another man. They were married last week, and that finished me--did for me completely." "There seems to have been a blunder somewhere certainly," broke in Anthony, a little helplessly. "Blunder? I should think there has been a blunder," cried Jimmy, with a laugh. "I set out so well; I meant to do such big things; and here, for ever hung round my neck like a millstone, are a wife and child who are nothing to me, and can be nothing. She drags me down, and keeps me down; my work is not what it was; it will never be anything again. I can't write; I can't think; I fly to that"--he flung out a hand towards the bottle on the table--"and so get some relief. That's poor Jimmy Larrance--who married a woman out of pity!" Anthony Ditchburn coughed again, and shook his head; it seemed the only thing he could do. "Sad--inexpressibly sad," he murmured. "Sad, indeed," said Jimmy. "But what does it matter? Already people are beginning to say that the work I've done lately--such as it is--isn't what it was; the grip has gone out of it. They begin to hint at failure; and you know how I started a year or two ago--eh?" "I know--I remember well," murmured Anthony, with another melancholy shake of the head. "Exactly; even you can be sorry for me. Take another drink; it's the best stuff in the world for a heartache--the best medicine for a failure. You're a failure--aren't you, old Ditchburn; and I'm another; we can shake hands on that!" Anthony Ditchburn went away that evening--a little unsteadily as to the stairs--but the richer by five pounds. Here was a gold mine indeed; here was a man who, kept in a proper condition of insobriety, might spell luxury for Anthony Ditchburn for some time to come. Only one regret the old man had; that he had given up the letters; he might have done something better with those in the future. Let it not be supposed for a moment that this attitude on the part of Jimmy had been a mere thing of a moment; it had been steadily growing. He was of that temperament that must brood, and he had had loneliness enough wherein to brood. It had begun on a particular day when Alice had come to him, to demand weakly and tearfully the meaning of a certain letter he had sent her.