He dared not return to bed now--fear of dreams. To draw on parts of his clothing was an heroic achievement, but he could not bend forward to put on stockings or shoes without overturning his stomach, the lining of which was sore as a festering wound. His nostrils, with their continual suggestions, now tortured him with a certain half-cooked odor of his own inner tissues. The consciousness of having lost his will--that he was thirty years old, and shortly to be drunk again--became the nucleus for every flying storm-cloud in his brain. He knew what it would be now. He would drink regularly, fatten, redden, and betray every remnant of good left within him--more and more distended and brutalized--until his heart stopped or his liver hardened. And the great work? He tried to smile at this. Those who had looked for big things from his maturity had chosen a musty vessel. He would write of the loves of the flesh, and of physical instincts--one of the common--with a spark of the old genius now and then to light up the havoc--that he might writhe! Yes, he would never get past that--the instantaneous flash of his real self to lift him where he belonged--so he would not forget to suffer--_when he fell back_.... "I'll break that little system," he muttered angrily, as to an enemy in the room, "I'll drink my nerve back and shoot my head off...." But bigger, infinitely more important, than any of these thoughts, was the straining of every sense for Bob's step in the hall--Bob with the whiskey from his never-failing friend, Dr. Whipple.... Yes, he had chosen whiskey to drive out the God-stuff from his soul. What a dull, cheap beast he was! The day was breaking--a sweet summer morning. He wrapped the bed-clothes closer about him, and lifted the window higher. The nostrils that had brought him so much of squalor and horror now expanded to the new life of the day--vitality that stirred flowers and foliage, grasses and skies to beauty; the blessed morning winds, lit with faint glory. The East was a great, gray butterfly's wing, shot with quivering lines of mauve and gold. It shamed the hulk huddled at the window. Bob's foot on the stairs was the price of his brutality. "Great mornin' for a ride. Beth is fit as a circus. I'd better get her ready, hadn't I, sir?" "God, no!" Charter mumbled. "Help me on with my boots, and pour out a drink. Bring fresh water.... Did Doctor----" "Didn't question me, sir. Brought what you wanted, and said he'd drop over to see you to-day." Charter held his mouth for the proffered stimulant, and beckoned the other back. "Let me sit still for a minute or two. Don't joggle about the room, Bob."