giving up his study, and my uncle’s disgrace. I straightened it out for the poor boy—it all seemed so easy and natural and commonplace for _my_ practised hand!—and I believe I brought some little peace and comfort back to that crushed and despairing household. But it all means, of course, that now I’ll have to go back to America. Still, whatever I may have to go through, or whatever happens to me, I shall always have the consolation of knowing that I made that one small sacrifice and did that one small kindness. But from the first I saw that my sanctuary was no longer a sanctuary. And when I saw that I should really have to go back, I was almost glad. The very thought of it seemed to give a new zest to life. I had been trying to tell myself that my future there would not be empty and lonely. But all along, in my secret heart of hearts, I knew better. I could not close my eyes to anticipation; I could not shut activity out of my life. It seemed suddenly to people all my lonely future with possibilities, that first thought of going back. And then there was _you_. Yes, I believe all along that it was you I wanted. I tried to argue myself away from the feeling that I was deserting you, but I knew it was true. It was this feeling that saved me, that made me feel almost elated, when I saw that fate was once more flinging me into the life from which I had been fighting to escape. You don’t know what the very word ‘America’ now means to me—it’s like the shrill of a call-bell, it’s like the double ‘i’ of our operating days, warning us to be ready! I want to go home; and home, now, is where you are. I can’t entomb myself yet—I am too young. I want to live, Jim, I want to live! Those feverish years must have left some virus in my veins, some virus of recklessness and revolt. And there is so much to do, so many things are challenging us, waiting for us. I can not be satisfied with memories, and Yesterday. I want Tomorrow, and You! It may be blind, and wrong, and wicked—but, oh, Jim, the wires are all down between my head and my heart!” CHAPTER VII Durkin sat at the restaurant table, smoking, his watch in his hand. It was already seven minutes to four. As the seventh minute slipped into the sixth, and the sixth into the fifth, some first vague sense of impending disaster stole over him. “Is this seat taken, sir?” It was a waiter speaking, with a short, florid man at his heels. “Yes,” said Durkin, quietly, “I’m expecting a lady—in five minutes.” The florid man bowed. The waiter said “Yes, sir,” tipped the chair against the table edge, and went on in search of a seat.