We walked on for some distance in silence, then he added:  ’That was four years ago.  You wonder why I live to tell you of it, why I haven’t cut my throat.  I don’t know whether it’s cowardice or conscientious scruples.  It seems rather inconsequent to say that I believe in a God, doesn’t it?—­that I believe one’s life is not one’s own to make an end of?  Anyhow, here I am, keeping body and soul together as musician to a brasserie-a-femmes.  I can’t go back to England, I can’t leave Bordeaux—­she’s buried here.  I’ve hunted high and low for work, and found it nowhere save in the brasserie-a-femmes.  With that, and a little copying now and then, I manage to pay my way.’

‘But your uncle?’ I asked.

‘Do you think I would touch a penny of his money?’ Pair retorted, almost fiercely.  ’It was he who began it.  My wife let herself die.  It was virtual suicide.  It was he who created the situation that drove her to it.’

‘You are his heir, though, aren’t you?’

‘No, the estates are not entailed.’

We had arrived at the door of my hotel.  ’Well, good-night and bon voyage,’ he said.

‘You needn’t wish me bon voyage,’ I answered.  ’Of course I’m not leaving Bordeaux for the present.’

’Oh, yes, you are.  You’re going on to Biarritz to-morrow morning, as you intended.’

And herewith began a long and most painful struggle.  I could persuade him to accept no help of any sort from me.  ’What I can’t do for myself,’ he declared, ’I’ll do without.  My dear fellow, all that you propose is contrary to the laws of Nature.  One man can’t keep another—­it’s an impossible relation.  And I won’t be kept; I won’t be a burden.  Besides, to tell you the truth, I’ve got past caring.  The situation you find me in seems terrible to you; to me it’s no worse than another.  You see, I’m hardened; I’ve got past caring.’

‘At any rate,’ I insisted, ’I shan’t go on to Biarritz.  I’ll spend my holiday here, and we can see each other every day.  What time shall we meet to-morrow?’

’No, no, I can’t meet you again.  Don’t ask me to; you mean it kindly, I know, but you’re mistaken.  It’s done me good to talk it all out to you, but I can’t meet you again.  I’ve got no heart for friendship, and—­you remind me too keenly of many things.’

‘But if I come to the brasserie to-morrow night?’

’Oh, if you do that, you’ll oblige me to throw up my employment there, and hide from you.  You must promise not to come again—­you must respect my wishes.’

‘You’re cruel, you know.’

‘Perhaps, perhaps.  But I think I’m only reasonable.  Anyhow, good-bye.’

He shook my hand hurriedly, and moved off.  What could I do?  I stood looking after him till he had vanished in the night, with a miserable baffled recognition of my helplessness to help him.

A RESPONSIBILITY