and got a bit tipsy. I remember then sort of seeing myself--sort of trying to pull myself together and realise who I really was; and while I was trying, I could see myself playing the fool and staggering about and making an ass of myself. It was the drink that did that--that kind of separated me into two. Now I've done the same thing by trying to drown myself and nearly succeeding and by coming into this extraordinary state of affairs after living in a groove so long. Part of me is still in that old life and gets the upper hand of me sometimes, just as the drink used to. I've only got to realise that I've done with all that, and I've only got to smash about and not care what happens to me, and I'm all right. "And I have done with it," cried Mr. Wriford aloud and fiercely, and sitting up and continuing to speak very quickly. "I have done with it! All these years I've been shut up and never enjoyed myself like other men. I've given up my life to others and got mixed up in their troubles and never been able to live for myself. Now I'm going to begin life all over again. I'm not going to care for anybody. I'm just going to let myself--go! I'm not going to care what happens. I'm not going to think of other people's feelings. I'm not going to be polite or care a damn what anybody thinks. If I get hurt, I'm just going to be hurt and not care. If I want to do what would have seemed wrong in the old days, I'm just going to do it and not care. I've cared too much! that's what's been wrong with me. Now I'm not going to care for anything or anybody. This chap Puddlebox said that what was wrong with me was that I thought too much about myself. I remember Brida telling me the same thing once. That's just exactly what it's not. All my life I've thought too much about other people. That's been the trouble. Done! Whoop, my boy, it's done! There's not going to be anybody in the world for myself except me--yes, and not even me. I'm going to be outside it all and just look on--and this me lying here can do what it likes, anything it likes. Hurt itself, starve itself, chuck itself down--that's one of the things I want to do: to get up somewhere and chuck myself down _smash!_ and see what happens and laugh at it, whatever it is. I'm simply not going to care. I belong to myself--or rather myself belongs to me, and I'm going to do what I like with it--just exactly what I like. Puddlebox!" Mr. Wriford turned to the recumbent form beside him to nudge it into wakefulness, but found it already awake. The gleam of Mr. Puddlebox's open eyes was to be seen in the darkness, and Mr. Puddlebox said: "Loony, how many of you are here this morning?" "There's only me," said Mr. Wriford. "I'm not going to care--" "You're spooked again, loony," Mr. Puddlebox interrupted him. "I've been listening to you talking."