When her shock and the headache subsided, and she remembered that she had been reading the letter when Gosse had accosted her, she looked for it in vain. She was the actress his whim had chosen to play a passive part. Through yet another doorway she observed an ancient silk brocade loom. Look! Is that some one coming out?” The front door of the flats stood open, and through it a woman, slim and veiled, passed on to the pavement and turned with swift footsteps in the opposite direction. He refused his food,—and even when better provisions were offered him, rejected them. But of what avail is this? You have no execution, no finish. “You know,” he muttered, “you know quite well that your troubles are far more likely to weigh upon me than my own. The man looked as though he would have liked to deny it, but could not. But De Maupassant—sheer off! Stick to Dickens and Thackeray and Hugo. His age was not far from fifty. Sydney sprang up. There were menacing possibilities; the thought of them set him a-tremble. Drummond nodded. “They mould one insensibly.
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