The most terrible things in dramatic situations are the little things that speak to one for once in their lives. The pattern of the carpet that tells you that there is no doubt of the fact that your wife has run away with all your money, and left you with seven children to look after, the form of the chair that tells you that Justice with a noose in her hand is waiting on the front door step. Jones, just now, was under the obsession of _the_ picture of the room, whose place was above the mantelpiece. It was an oleograph of a gentleman in uniform, probably the Prince Consort, correct, sane, urbane--a terrible comparison for a man in an insane situation, for insanity is not confined to the brain of man or its productions--though heaven knows she has a fine field of movement in both. A thundering rat-tat-tat at the hall door brought Jones to his feet. He heard the door answered, a voice outside saying "N'k you" and the door shut. It was some parcel left in. Then he heard Mrs. Henshaw descending the kitchen stairs and all was quiet. He turned to the bookcase, opened it, inspected the contents, and chose "Moths." CHAPTER XXV MOTHS In ill-health or convalescence, or worry or tribulation, the ordinary mind does not turn to Milton or Shakespeare, or even to the sermons of Charles Haddon Spurgeon. There are few classics that will stand the test of a cold in the head, or a fit of depression, or a worrying husband, or a minor tragedy. Here the writer of "light fiction" stands firm. Jones had never been a great reader, he had read a cheap novel or two, but his browsings in the literary fields had been mainly confined to the uplands where the grass is improving. Colour, poetry, and construction in fiction were unknown to him, and now--he suddenly found himself on the beach at Trouville. On the beach at Trouville with Lady Dolly skipping before him in the sea. He had reached the forced engagement of the beautiful heroine to the wicked Russian Prince, when the door opened and the supper tray entered, followed by Mrs. Henshaw. Left to honour and her own initiative she had produced a huge lobster, followed by cheese, and three little dull looking jam tarts on a willow pattern plate. When Jones had ruined the lobster and devoured the tarts he went on with the book. The lovely heroine had become for him Teresa, Countess of Rochester, the Opera singer himself, and the Russian Prince Maniloff. Then the deepening dusk tore him from the book. Work had to be done. He rang the bell, told Mrs. Henshaw that he was going to the railway station to see after his luggage, took his cap, and went out. Strangely enough he did not feel nervous. The first flurry had passed, and he had adapted himself to the situation, the deepening darkness gave him a sense of security, and the lights of the shops cheered him somehow. He turned to the left towards the sea.