"Very tired. Horrible indigestion and heartburn, legs like lumps of brass and a nasty feeling as if an imprisoned black-bird were fluttering at the base of my spine! But quite sober, Dicker, now!" "Nor were you ever anything else, in Bryanstone Square," the young man said hotly. "It _was_ such a mistake for you to go away, Gilbert. So unnecessary!" "I had my reasons. Was there much comment? Now tell me honestly, was it very noticeable?--what did they say?" "No one said anything at all," Ingworth answered, lying bravely. "The evening didn't last long after you went. Every one left together--I say you ought to have seen the Toftrees' motor!--and I drove Miss Wallace home, and then came on here." "A beautiful girl," Lothian said sleepily. "I only talked to her for a minute or two and she seemed clever and sympathetic. Certainly she is lovely." Ingworth rose from the bed. He pointed to the table in the centre of the room. "Well, I'm off, old chap," he said. "As far as Miss Wallace goes, she's absolutely gone on you! She was quoting your verses all the way in the cab. She lives in a tiny flat with another girl, and I had to wait outside while she did up that parcel there! It's 'Surgit Amari,' she wants you to sign it for her, and there's a note as well, I believe. Good-night." "Good-night, Dicker. I can't talk now. I'm beautifully drunk to-night . . . Look me up in the morning. Then we'll talk." The door had hardly closed upon the departing youth, when Lothian sank into a heap upon his chair. His body felt like a quivering jelly, a leaden depression, as if Hell itself weighed him down. Mechanically, and with cold, trembling hands, he opened the brown paper parcel. His book, in its cover of sage-green and gold, fell out upon the table. He began to read the note--the hand-writing was firm, clear and full of youth--so he thought. The heading of the note paper was embossed-- "The Podley Pure Literature Institute. _Dear Mr. Lothian_: I am so proud and happy to have met you to-night. I am so sorry that I had not the chance of telling you what your poems have been to me--though of course you must always be hearing that sort of thing. So I will say nothing more, but ask you, only, to put your name in my copy of "Surgit Amari" and thus make it more precious--if that is possible--than before. Mr. Ingworth has kindly promised to give you this note and the book. Yours sincerely, RITA WALLACE." The letter dropped unheeded upon the carpet. Thick tears began to roll down Lothian's swollen face. "Mary! Mary!" he said aloud, "I want you, I want you!" . . . "Darling! there is no one else in the world but you." He was calling for his wife, always so good and kind to him, his dear and loving wife. At the end of his long foul day, lived without a thought of her, he was calling for her help and comfort like a sick child. Poisoned, abject, he whined for her in the empty room.