He went back to the bed, sat down upon it, and struck a match; and by the light of that match he read the opening lines of the letter. He struck match after match, and by their light he read to the end of it. And as his hot eyes took in the last words some of his old dignity came back to him--he saw that he was sitting in a tomfool’s masquerading rags reading the generous deed of gift of one who refused to be a clog upon him to whom she had intended only to be an honour and a delight, who asked nothing of him, who made no complaint, who simply wished that he should be free, who would not even embarrass him with the initiative of her dismissal--who was gone! And in the darkness he seemed to feel cold hands grope towards him and clasp icy fingers about his feet; and a whisper spoke in his ear: “Thou art alone.” CHAPTER LXVIII _Wherein it is seen that a Man is More or Less Responsible for his Father_ Noll, arriving on Horace’s landing, found Babette outside the door; and she was sobbing. “What! Babette?” said he--“and crying?” Babette brushed her fingers across her eyes: “No,” she said; her trembling lips giving her the lie. “Babette, why?” He put his hand on her shoulder kindly. Babette stamped her foot: “I am _not_ crying,” she said; and a large tear fell.... She made an effort and said: “Horace is going home.... He is going--away.” She opened the door, and they went in together. Noll walked into the studio; but the silken rustle of Babette’s skirts passed the door, and hurried on into the darkness of the house. In the deep dusk of the studio sat four or five figures, smudgy dark shadows, sprawling in armchairs. “Is that you, Noll?” cried Horace from behind the red spark where a cigarette glowed. “Yes--I thought you were alone----” “Did you want me?” “There’s no hurry, old boy,” said Noll, and added grimly: “It can wait.” “That’s right,” said Horace, pushing a chair towards him with his foot. “There’s the bottle by you--and a glass--and the dried cabbage of Egypt. Set it ablaze and talk.” Horace struck a match on the seat of his breeches as Noll flung into the chair, and handed the flame to him; and Noll, setting the light to a cigarette, saw the faces of Bartholomew Doome and four of the Five Foolish Virgins in the gloom. The light went out. “Your room’s all dismantled, Horace,” said he. “Yes,” said Horace--“I’m off home. I was just sending Jonkin with a note to tell you. I’m giving my farewell feast of departure to-morrow night--next day I’m off.” “Why?” Horace shifted uneasily in his chair; and then he laughed. “My father’s become chairman of his newspaper company; and he’s going to give an address to a learned society on the Dignity of Literature.... I can’t stand that.... After all, one is more or less responsible for one’s father.... Indeed, the drawback of having a father is that he has the right to bear the same name.” “But----”