“But, while you’re saving humanity from itself,” I pointed out, “the money’s increasing automatically.” “I can find outlets farther afield. You wouldn’t let those people starve under your eyes; but you’ll let people starve to their hearts’ content if you can’t see ’em.” “With a million or two of unemployed here,” I began, “you won’t be popular.” “If I could afford to consider my popularity!,” he broke out with a joyless laugh. As Sonia was in the country, I brought him to dine with me in Seymour Street. We gossiped until nearly midnight; and, when I had sent him home, I settled to my daily duty of opening Barbara’s letters for her. She had been right, three months before, in calling her correspondence uninteresting; and, until this night, I had not been troubled with any doubts which letters to send on and which to destroy. Now I encountered a problem for which I was unprepared. The first letter referred to an occasion eighteen months before, when my wife—according to the writer—had invited him to run away with her. CHAPTER THREE AS YOU SOW . . . “. . . The morrow brought the task. Her eyes were guilty gates, that let him in By shutting all too zealous for their sin: Each sucked a secret, and each wore a mask. But, oh, the bitter taste her beauty had! . . . “. . . A star with lurid beams, she seemed to crown The pit of infamy: and then again He fainted on his vengefulness, and strove To ape the magnanimity of love. . . .” GEORGE MEREDITH: _Modern Love_. 1 I hardly remember when the meaning became clear to me. I was reading with but half my attention, when I met a reference to Croxton Hall, followed by familiar names. The letter was badly written, in pencil, and more than badly arranged. The writer had been ill; he was so ill at that moment that I could not make out the signature. I examined the envelope. There a different hand had traced the bold address; I noticed for the first time that the letter had been forwarded from the Crawleighs’ house in Berkeley Square; then I saw an American stamp and understood the faint pencil scratching. It was from Eric Lane; and he was dying as he wrote. 2 The shock numbed me; and I read again with so little attention that I had to turn back in the middle. Then a second shock drove the first from my mind. Eric was dying: yes, I realized that. He was bidding Barbara farewell; and, in my first uncaring glance, I had seen so much that I must now see all. After losing Barbara, he had found little inducement to live; and, though he had once hoped to marry little Ivy Maitland, John Gaymer had returned—almost on the eve of the wedding—to establish again his empire over Ivy’s will. Eric had made his failing lungs an excuse to set her free: