"Laisse-toi donc aimer! Car l'amour, c'est la vie, C'est tout ce qu'on regrette et tout ce qu'on envie Quand on voit sa jeunesse au couchant décliner. Sans lui rien n'est complet, sans lui rien ne rayonne. La beauté c'est le front, l'amour c'est la couronne. Laisse-toi couronner!" His own lines sounded a sad jingle; he grew ashamed of them, and in the weariness of his passions he fell asleep. He had left till to-morrow the visit he owed to John Jacks. It was not pleasant, the thought of calling at the house at Queen's Gate; Mrs. Jacks might have heard strange things about him on that mad evening three years ago. Yet in decency he must go; perhaps, too, in self-interest. And at the wonted hour he went. Fortunately; for John Jacks seemed unfeignedly glad to see him, and talked with him in private for half an hour after the observances of the drawing-room, where Mrs. Jacks had been very sweetly proper and properly sweet. In the library, much more at his ease, Otway told what he had before him, all the details of his commercial project. "It occurs to me," said John Jacks--who was looking far from well, and at times spoke with an effort--"that I may be able to be of some use in this matter. I'll think about it, and--leave me your address--I shall probably write to you. And now tell me all about your father. He is hale and hearty?" "In excellent health, I think," Piers replied cheerfully. "Dante suffices him still." "Odd that you should have come to-day. I don't know why, I was thinking of your father all last night--I don't sleep very well just now. I thought of the old days, a lifetime ago; and I said to myself that I would write him a letter. So I will, to-day. And in a month or two I shall see him. I'm a walking-copybook-line; procrastination--nothing but putting off pleasures and duties these last years; I don't know how it is. But certainly I will go over to Hawes when I'm in Yorkshire. And I'll write today, tell him I've seen you." Much better in spirits, Piers returned to the hotel. Yes, after all, he would copy out those verses of his, and send them to Miss Derwent. They were not bad; they came from his heart, and they might speak to hers. Just his name at the end; no address. If she desired to write to him, she could easily learn his address from Mrs. Hannaford. He would send them! "A telegram for you, sir," said the porter, as he entered. Wondering, he opened it. "Your father has suddenly died. Hope this will reach you in time. EMMA OTWAY." For a minute or two, the message was meaningless. He stood reading and re-reading the figures which indicated hour of despatch and of delivery. Presently he asked for a railway-guide, and with shaking hands, with agony of mental confusion, sought out the next train northwards. There was just time to catch it; not time to pack his bag. He rushed out to the cab. CHAPTER XIV