He shut the door of the drawing-room and moved at hazard, alone amongst the heavy shadows and in the fiery twilight as of an elegant place of perdition.  She hadn’t the gift—­no one had. . . .  He stepped on a book that had fallen off one of the crowded little tables.  He picked up the slender volume, and holding it, approached the crimson-shaded lamp.  The fiery tint deepened on the cover, and contorted gold letters sprawling all over it in an intricate maze, came out, gleaming redly.  “Thorns and Arabesques.”  He read it twice, “Thorns and Ar . . . . . . . .”  The other’s book of verses.  He dropped it at his feet, but did not feel the slightest pang of jealousy or indignation.  What did he know? . . .  What? . . .  The mass of hot coals tumbled down in the grate, and he turned to look at them . . .  Ah!  That one was ready to give up everything he had for that woman—­who did not come—­who had not the faith, the love, the courage to come.  What did that man expect, what did he hope, what did he want?  The woman—­or the certitude immaterial and precious!  The first unselfish thought he had ever given to any human being was for that man who had tried to do him a terrible wrong.  He was not angry.  He was saddened by an impersonal sorrow, by a vast melancholy as of all mankind longing for what cannot be attained.  He felt his fellowship with every man—­even with that man—­especially with that man.  What did he think now?  Had he ceased to wait—­and hope?  Would he ever cease to wait and hope?  Would he understand that the woman, who had no courage, had not the gift—­had not the gift!

The clock began to strike, and the deep-toned vibration filled the room as though with the sound of an enormous bell tolling far away.  He counted the strokes.  Twelve.  Another day had begun.  To-morrow had come; the mysterious and lying to-morrow that lures men, disdainful of love and faith, on and on through the poignant futilities of life to the fitting reward of a grave.  He counted the strokes, and gazing at the grate seemed to wait for more.  Then, as if called out, left the room, walking firmly.

When outside he heard footsteps in the hall and stood still.  A bolt was shot—­then another.  They were locking up—­shutting out his desire and his deception from the indignant criticism of a world full of noble gifts for those who proclaim themselves without stain and without reproach.  He was safe; and on all sides of his dwelling servile fears and servile hopes slept, dreaming of success, behind the severe discretion of doors as impenetrable to the truth within as the granite of tombstones.  A lock snapped—­a short chain rattled.  Nobody shall know!