But the awful thing that he was feeding and breeding within him--the "false Ego," to use the cold, scientific, and appallingly accurate definition of the doctors--had not achieved supreme power. Even during the last year of the three or four years of the poisoning process it had not become all-powerful. It had kept him from Church; it had kept him from the Eucharist; it had drawn one thick grey blanket after another between the eye of his soul and the vision of God. But kindly human instinct had remained unimpaired, and he had done many things _sub specie Crucis_--under the influence of, and for the sake of that Cross which was so surely and steadily receding from his days and passing away to a dim and far horizon. But there arrives a time when the pitcher that is filled drop by drop becomes full. The liquid trembles for a moment upon the brim and trickles over. And there comes a sure moment in the life of the alcoholic when the fiend within waxes strong enough finally to strangle the old self, fills all the house and reigns supreme. It is always something of relatively small importance that hastens the end--ensures the final plunge. It was the last few whiskeys that sent honour and conscience flying away with scared faces from this man's soul. But they acted upon the poison of years, now risen to the very brim of the cup. One more drop . . . People were getting up from the tables and leaving the restaurant. The band was resting, there was no more music at the moment, and the remaining diners were leaning over the tables and talking to each other in low, confidential tones. Rita looked up suddenly. "What are we going to do now?" she said with her quick bright smile. "When we went to Brighton together," Gilbert answered, "you told me that you had never been to a Music Hall. A box at the Empire is waiting for us. Let us go and see how you like it. If you don't, we can come away and go for a drive round London in a taxi. The air will be cooler now, and in the suburbs we may see the moon. But come and try. The night is yours, and I am yours, also. You are the Queen of the Dance of the Hours and I your Court Chamberlain." "Oh, how perfectly sweet! Take me to the Empire." As they stood upon the steps of the restaurant and the commissionaire whistled up a cab, Gilbert spoke to Rita in a low, husky voice. "We ought to get there in time for the ballet," he said, "because it is the most perfect thing to be seen in Europe, outside Milan or St. Petersburg. But we've ten minutes yet, at least. Shall I tell him to drive round?" "Yes, Gilbert." The taxi-meter glided away through the garish lights of the Strand, and then, unexpectedly, swerved into Craven Street towards the Embankment. Almost immediately the interior of the cab grew dark. Gilbert put his arm round Rita's waist and caught her hand with his. He drew her closer to him. "Oh, my love!" he said with a sob in his voice. "My dear little Love; at last, at last!"