influence over her, which, of course, she would never let him see again. All the same he had replied at once, asking if he might come and say good-bye before she left Scarfedale. And she had sent him a telegram—‘Delighted—to-morrow—five o’clock.’ And he was going—out of a kind of recklessness—a kind of obstinate recoil against the sorrowful or depressing circumstance of life. He had given up all thoughts of trying to win her back—even if there were any chance of it. His pride would not let him sue as a pauper; and of course the Langmoors, to whom she was going—he understood—from Scarfedale, would take good care she did not throw herself away. Quite right too. Very likely the Tamworths would capture her; and Bletchley was quite a nice fellow. When he did see her, what could they talk about? Radowitz? He would like to send a message through her to Radowitz—to say something— What could he say? He had seen Radowitz for a few minutes after the inquest—to thank him for his evidence—and for what he had done for Sir Arthur. Both had hurried through it. Falloden had seemed to himself stricken with aphasia. His mouth was dry, his tongue useless. And Radowitz had been all nerves, a flickering colour—good God, how deathly he looked! Afterwards he had begun a letter to Radowitz, and had toiled at it, sometimes at dead of night, and in a feverish heat of brain. But he had never finished or sent it. What was the use? Nothing was changed. That black sling and the damaged hand in it stood for one of those hard facts that no wishing, and no sentimentalising, and no remorse could get over. ‘I wish to God I had let him alone!’ That now was the frequent and bitter cry of Falloden’s inmost being. Trouble and the sight of trouble—sorrow—and death—had been to him, as to other men, sobering and astonishing facts. The most decisive effect of them had been to make him vulnerable, to break through the hard defences of pride and custom, so that he realised what he had done. And this realisation was fast becoming a more acute and haunting thing than anything else. It constantly drove out the poignant recollection of his father’s death, or the dull sense of financial loss and catastrophe. Loss and catastrophe might be at some distant time made good. But what could ever give Radowitz back his art—his career—his natural object in life? The hatches of the present had just got to be closed over this ugly, irreparable thing. ‘I can’t undo it—nothing can ever be undone. But I can’t spend my life in repenting it; one must just go forward, and not let that, or anything else, hamstring a man who has got his fight to fight, and can’t get out of it.’ Undo it? No. But were no, even partial, amends possible?—nothing that could be offered, or done, or said?—nothing that would give Constance Bledlow pleasure, or change her opinion?—efface that shrinking in her, of which he hated to think? He cudgelled his brains, but could think of nothing.