him quite alone, not coming near him in his desolation, because he loved her.  He would also lose his honour, his profession, and the beautiful things he loved to handle and play with.  “And then, when you’ve lost everything, and perhaps been involved in some of my disgraces, you’ll think that at least you and I can stick together and go under together and help each other a little.  And I daresay you’ll find that I shall say, ’No, I’m going off to Ireland, or Italy, or somewhere; I’ve had enough of you, and you can jolly well sink or swim by yourself’—­so you see you won’t have even me to live for in the end, just when you want me most.  That’s the sort of thing that happens....  Oh, what chance have you?” said Peter very bitterly, huddled, elbows on knees, over the chilly fire, while Thomas slumbered in a shawl on the rug.

Bitterness was so strange in Peter, so odd and new, that Thomas was disturbed by it, and woke and wailed, as if his world was tumbling about his ears.

Peter too felt it strange and new, and laughed a little at it and himself as he comforted Thomas.  But his very laughter was new and very dreary.  He picked Thomas up in his arms and held him close, a warm little whimpering bundle.  Then it was as if the touch of the small live thing that was his own and had no one in the world but him to fend for it woke in him a new instinct.  There sprang up in him swiftly, new-born out of the travail of great bitterness, a sharp anger against life, against fate, against the whole universe of nature and man.  To lose and lose and lose—­how that goes on and on through a lifetime!  But at last it seems that the limit is reached, something snaps and breaks, and the loser rises up, philosopher no more, to take and grasp and seize.  The lust to possess, to wring something for Thomas and himself out of life that had torn from them so much—­it sprang upon him like a wild beast, and fastened deep fangs into his soul and will.

Outside, a small April wind stirred the air of the encompassing city, a faint breath from a better world, seeming to speak of life and hope and new beginnings.

Peter, laying Thomas gently on a chair, went to the open window and leant out, looking into the veil of the unhappy streets that hid an exquisite world.  Exquisiteness was surely there, as always.  Mightn’t he too, he and Thomas, snatch some of it for themselves?  The old inborn lust for things concrete, lovely things to handle and hold, caught Peter by the throat.  In that hour he could have walked without a scruple into an empty house or shop and carried away what he could of its beauties, and brought them home to Thomas, saying, “Anyhow, here’s something for us to go on with.”  He was in the mood in which some people take to drink, only Peter didn’t like any drinks except non-alcoholic ones; or to reckless gambling, only he didn’t find gambling amusing; or to some adventure of love, only to Peter love meant one thing only, and that was beyond his reach.