The sight of the threadbare sofa was as reassuring as the face of an old friend. Yet what an eternity it seemed since he had sat there and discussed his barren life with Barstow. The phrases he had used came back to mock him. He had talked of the things that lay beyond his reach, while even then they were at his hand, had he been but hardy enough to seize them; he had spoken of what money could buy for him, with love eagerly pressing greater gifts upon him without price; he had hungered for freedom with freedom his for the taking. Sailors have died of thirst at the broad mouth of the Amazon, thinking it to be the open salt sea; so he was dying in the midst of clean, sweet life. He sat down on the sofa, with his head between his hands and stared at the glittering rows of bottles which caught the sun. Each one of them was a laughing demon. They danced and winked their eyes--yellow, blue, and blood-red. There were a hundred of them keeping step to the bobbing shadows upon the floor. Row upon row of them--purple, brown, and blood-red--all dancing, all laughing. "You come out wrong every time," Barstow had said. And he--he had laughed back even as the bottles were doing. He was not cringing even now. He was asking no pity, no mercy. When he had stepped across the room and had taken down that bottle, he had been clear-headed; he had been clear-headed when he had swallowed its contents. The only relief he craved for himself was to be allowed to remain clear-headed until he should have written his letter. Coming up the stairs he feared lest this might not be. Now he seemed to be steadying once more. He thought of Sandy. Poor pup, he had gone out easily enough. He had curled up on a friendly knee and gone to sleep. That was all there had been to it. It would be an odd thing, he mused, if the dog was where he could look down on this man-struggle. This braced him up; he would not have even this dog see him die other than bravely. As far as he himself was concerned, he knew that he would go unflinchingly to meet his final creditor, but there were the Others--with Sandy there had been no Others. It was easy enough to die alone, but when in addition to one's own death throes one had to bear those of others,--that was harder. When he died, it would be as when several died. There would be that mother in Vermont--part of her would die with him; there would be Saul--even part of him would die with him; there was Ben--some of him would die, too; and there was Elaine--good God, how much of her would die with him?