He remembered that a man of letters, who had got into dreadful trouble and had served a period of imprisonment, had remarked to him that the food of penal servitude was plentiful and good, but that it was its dreadful monotony that made it a contributory torture. And who could live for ever upon honey-comb? Not he at any rate. Mary was "always her sweet self"--just like a phrase in a girl's novel. There were men who liked that, and preferred it, of course. Even when she was angry with him, he knew exactly how the quarrel would go--a tune he had heard many times before. The passion of their early love had faded; as it must always do. She was beautiful and desirable still, but too calm, too peaceful, sometimes! This was one of those times. One must be trained to appreciate Heaven properly, Paradise must be experienced first--otherwise, would not almost every one want a little holiday sometimes? He thought of a meeting of really good people, men and women--one stumbled in upon such a thing now and then. How appallingly dull they generally were! Did they never crave for madder music and stronger wine? . . . He could not read. Restless and rebellious thoughts occupied his mind. The Fiend Alcohol was at work once more, though Lothian had no suspicion of it. The new and evil Ego, created by alcohol, which the doctor had told him of, was awake within him, asserting itself, stirring uneasily, finding its identity diminishing, its vitality lowered and thus clamant for its rights. And if this, in all its horror, is not true demoniacal possession, what else is? What more does the precise scientific language of those who study the psychology of the inebriate mean than "He was possessed of a Devil"? The fiend, the new Ego, went on with its work as the poet lay there and the long lights of the summer afternoon filled the room with gold-dust. The house was absolutely still. Mary had given orders that there was to be no noise at all, "in order that the Master might sleep, if he could." It was a summer's afternoon, the scent of some flowers below in the garden came up to Gilbert with a curious familiarity. What _was_ the scent? What memory, which would not come, was it trying to evoke? A motor-car droned through the village beyond the grounds. Memory leaped up in a moment. Of course! The ride to Brighton, the happy afternoon with Rita Wallace. That was it! He had thought of her a good deal on the journey down from London--until he had sat in the dining car with those shooting men from Thetford and had had too many whiskeys and sodas. During the last three days in bed, she had not "occurred" to him vividly. Yet all the time there had been something at the back of his mind of which he had been conscious, but was unable to explain to himself. The nasty knock on his head, when he had taken a toss from the dogcart, was the reason, no doubt.