A black cloud of horror and despair came down on him. He saw himself as he was. For once he dared to look at his own evil heart, and no light came to him in that dark hour. * * * * * A little before half-past five, nine or ten men stood on the platform of the Great Western station talking together. A group of what Gobion called the "good" set had come to see him go. They stood round, sorrowfully pressing him to write and let them know how he got on. Fleming went to the bookstall and bought a great bundle of papers and magazines, and Scott appeared at the door of the refreshment-room laden with sandwiches and a flask of sherry. They shook hands all round; it was the last time most of them saw him. Sadly they said good-bye, and took a last look at his clear-cut face. Scott claimed the last adieu, and leant into the carriage, pressing Gobion's hand, afraid to speak. Gobion felt a horrible remorse, but he choked down his emotion by an enormous effort of will. The train began to move. "God bless you, God bless you, old un," said Scott hoarsely. "An epithet is the conclusion of a syllogism," said Gobion to himself, lighting a cigarette as the train glided out of the station. So he went his way, and they saw him no more. CHAPTER III. _INITIATION._ Gobion went to the Grosvenor Hotel and dressed for dinner. Never before had he been so free, so unrestrained. A most pleasurable feeling of excitement possessed him. He knew he could venture where another man would fail; he had fascination, resource--he was utterly unscrupulous; it was almost pleasingly dramatic. He stood in the hall after dinner and lit a cigarette, watching the crowd of well-dressed people on the lounges round the wall, enjoying their after-dinner coffee. The excellent dinner he had eaten still wanted the final climax of coffee, and sitting down in an armchair he ordered some. The dreamy content of a well-fed, but not over-fed, man beamed from him. What should he do?--a music-hall perhaps--he could almost have laughed aloud in pure amusement and delight at his freedom. A man sitting near asked him for a match, and they began to talk in the idle desultory way of two chance acquaintances, making remarks about the people sitting round. A big, yellow-haired girl was talking and laughing in loud tones on the other side of the room, clattering her fan with, it seemed to Gobion, quite unnecessary noise. "Who is that person?" he said. "Which?" "The girl with the bun, by the potted palm." "Oh," said the stranger, "that is Lady Mary Aiden Hibbert; she is of a rather buoyant disposition." "Not to say _Tom_ buoyant," said Gobion, punning lazily; "she seems of an amiable complexion." "My dear sir, complexion of both kinds is influenced by cosmetics, not by character." "I perceive you are a cynic." "Possibly," said the other in a meditative tone; "yet not so much of a cynic as a man in quest of sensations." "A society journalist?"