in the art-world, visits of police, and other inconveniences, for it was difficult to believe that the pictures would never come beneath the eye of a first-class expert.  But nothing had occurred, and he had gradually subsided into a sense of security.  He was happy; happy in the untrammelled exercise of his gift, happy in having all the money that his needs and Alice’s demanded; happier than he had been in the errant days of his glory and his wealth.  Alice had been amazed at his power of earning; and also, she had seemed little by little to lose her suspicions as to his perfect sanity and truthfulness.  In a word, the dog of fate had slept; and he had taken particular care to let it lie.  He was in that species of sheltered groove which is absolutely essential to the bliss of a shy and nervous artist, however great he may be.

And now this disastrous irruption, this resurrection of the early sins of the real Leek!  He was hurt; he was startled; he was furious.  But he was not surprised.  The wonder was that the early sins of Henry Leek had not troubled him long ago.  What could he do?  He could do nothing.  That was the tragedy:  he could do nothing.  He could but rely upon Alice.  Alice was amazing.  The more he thought of it, the more masterly her handling of these preposterous curates seemed to him.  And was he to be robbed of this incomparable woman by ridiculous proceedings connected with a charge of bigamy?  He knew that bigamy meant prison, in England.  The injustice was monstrous.  He saw those curates, and their mute brother, and the aggrieved mother of the three dogging him either to prison or to his deathbed!  And how could he explain to Alice?  Impossible to explain to Alice!...  Still, it was conceivable that Alice would not desire explanation.  Alice somehow never did desire an explanation.  She always said, “I can quite understand,” and set about preparing a meal.  She was the comfortablest cushion of a creature that the evolution of the universe had ever produced.

Then the gusty breeze dropped and it began to rain.  He ignored the rain.  But December rain has a strange, horrid quality of chilly persistence.  It is capable of conquering the most obstinate and serious mental preoccupation, and it conquered Priam’s.  It forced him to admit that his tortured soul had a fleshly garment and that the fleshly garment was soaked to the marrow.  And his soul gradually yielded before the attack of the rain, and he went home.

He put his latchkey into the door with minute precautions against noise, and crept into his house like a thief, and very gently shut the door.  Then, in the hall, he intently listened.  Not a sound!  That is to say, not a sound except the drippings of his hat on the linoleum.  The sitting-room door was ajar.  He timidly pushed it, and entered.  Alice was darning stockings.

“Henry!” she exclaimed.  “Why, you’re wet through!” She rose.

“Have they cleared off?” he demanded.