She felt the rush of strange
things. Her eyes sought his, filled with almost terrified anticipation.
It chanced that he was looking away. She clenched her hands. His
moment had passed.
"There is something else on your mind, Andrew, I know, but to-night we
cannot talk any longer," she said, in something resembling her old tone.
"Be very careful, dear. To-morrow--you will come to-morrow."
He walked down the hall with the footsteps of a cat, let himself out
silently into the empty street and walked with leaden footsteps to his
rooms. It was not until he had reached the seclusion of his study that
the change came. A sudden dull fury burned in his heart. He poured
himself out whisky and drank it neat. Then he seated himself before his
desk and wrote. He did not once hesitate. He did not reread a single
sentence. He dug up the anger and the bitterness from his heart and set
them out in flaming phrases. A sort of lunacy drove him into the
bitterest of extremes. His brain seemed fed with the inspiration of his
suffering, fed with cruel epigrams and biting words.
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