René asked to be directed to his house. The tidings he had received had made his memory of Mr. Bentley very clear--gruff, kindly, patronizing, a little pompous, conscious of being a success and "somebody." He had his name printed very large on luggage labels, and the note-paper on which Cathleen used to write was crested, with something about _Judex_ on the scroll beneath the crest. And Mrs. Bentley was always tired, and her husband used to keep everybody flying round to fetch and carry for her. But they had very nice ways, and their house in Scotland was always open, even if it was overfull of athletic young men, highly polished and oppressively clean. When he came to the house, René found it empty. He was disappointed with its aspect. It was very like the Brocks' house in Galt's Park, must have been built about the same time; stucco with absurd Gothic windows; a square porch, rooms on either side of it. He was disappointed, for he had thought of the Bentleys living in a region remote and inaccessible, beyond anything he had ever known or could know. He remembered the agent's description of his own house--"an eminently desirable family residence." This house bore almost the same recommendation. The fantastic London that he had shaped in his mind began to fall away. It had something in common with Thrigsby, was connected with it by something more than the deep sleep in which he had been borne hither. He felt rather foolish standing there by the empty house, and saw with dismay how much more foolish he would have been if the house had been occupied and the Bentleys accessible. He had a sick fear as he saw how irresponsibly he had acted, and how separate his impulse had been from his will. "All the same," he said, "it is done. It is done. I thought I should always know what would happen to me, but this I did not know. It makes it easy for Linda. The Smallmans will help her to see how badly I have behaved. They will like saying it and explaining to all their friends. They will talk about all they did for me. I never wanted them to do anything. I never wanted-- If I had been like George and gone into business? But I could not have stood that, either. It would have been over sooner. Other people stand things, worse things, too. Oh, well--I can't." It gave him no pleasure to think that he was different from other people. Rather the reverse; it brought an acute pang of something like shame. He moved on. He lost himself in the polite streets of Putney with their little gardens, but came at last to another bridge. The sun was setting, and he stood and watched it weave a changing tapestry on the sky. "So the days go," he said. "I think I never noticed a day go before. There must have been something very wrong with me."