He would have consoled her, but
she motioned him away.
"Dear Stephen," she pleaded, "I am sorry--to be such a fool--but this
thing has lived with me a long time, and--would you go away? It would
be kindest."
He rose to his feet, hesitated for one moment of agony, then crossed the
room with a farewell glance at the sad little feast. He closed the door
softly behind him, descended the stairs and stood for a moment in the
entrance hall, looking out upon the street. A cheerless, drizzling rain
was falling. The streets were wet and swept with a cold wind. He
looked up and down, thought out the way to his club and shivered,
thought out in misery the way back to Chelsea, the turning of his
latch-key, the darkened rooms. The house opposite was brilliantly lit
up. They seemed to be dancing there and the music of violins floated
out into the darkness. Even as he stood there, he felt the bands of
self-control weaken about him. A vision of the cold, grey days ahead
terrified him. He was pitting his brain against his heart. Lives had
been wrecked in that fashion.
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