He walked through the city, seeing it not, and hearing all cruel voices dying to one—­this:  “I can only attain salvation by the elimination of all responsibilities.  There is therefore but one course to adopt.”  Decision came upon him like the surgeon’s knife.  It was in the cold darkness of his rooms in Pump Court.  He raised his face, deadly pale, from his hands; but gradually it went aflame with the joy and rapture of sacrifice, and taking his manuscript, he lighted it in the gas.  He held it for a few moments till it was well on fire, and then threw it all blazing under the grate.

CHAPTER II

An odour of spirits evaporated in the warm winds of May which came through the open window.  The rich velvet sofa of early English design was littered with proofs and copies of the Pilgrim, and the stamped velvet was two shades richer in tone than the pale dead-red of the floorcloth.  Small pictures in light frames harmonized with a green paper of long interlacing leaves.  On the right, the grand piano and the slender brass lamps; and the impression of refinement and taste was continued, for between the blue chintz curtains the river lay soft as a picture of old Venice.  The beauty of the water, full of the shadows of hay and sails, many forms of chimneys, wharfs, and warehouses, made panoramic and picturesque by the motion of the great hay-boats, were surely wanted for the windows of this beautiful apartment.

Mike and Frank stood facing the view, and talked of Lily Young, whom Mike was momentarily expecting.

“You know as much about it as I do.  It was only just at the end that you spoke to your cousin and I got in a few words.”

“What did you say?”

“What could I say?  Something to the effect that the convent must be a very happy home.”

“How did you know she cared for you?”

“I always know that.  The second time we went there she told me she was going to leave the convent.  I asked her what had decided her to take that step, and she looked at me—­that thirsting look which women cannot repress.  I said I hoped I should see her when she came to London; she said she hoped so too.  Then I knew it was all right.  I pressed her hand, and when we went again I said she would find a letter waiting for her at the post-office.  Somehow she got the letter sooner than I expected, and wrote to say she’d come here if she could.  Here is the letter.  But will she come?”

“Even if she does, I don’t see what good it will do you; it isn’t as if you were really in love with her.”