Scattered about the room were The Nineteenth Century and After, The Quarterly Review, the Times, and several books; among them Goethe’s “Faust,” Maspero’s “Manual of Egyptian Archaeology,” “A Companion to Greek Studies,” Guy de Maupassant’s “Fort Comme la Mort,” D’Annunzio’s “Trionfo della Morte,” and Hawthorne’s “Scarlet Letter.”  There was also a volume of Emerson’s “Essays.”  In a little basket under the writing-table lay the last number of The Winning Post, carefully destroyed.  There were a few pink roses in a vase.  In a cage some canary-birds were singing.  The furniture had been pulled about by a clever hand until the room had lost something of its look of a room in a smart hotel.  The windows were wide open on to the balcony.  They dominated the Thames Embankment, and a light breeze from the water stirred the white and green curtains that framed them.

Into this pretty and peacefully cheerful chamber Nigel Armine was shown by a waiter at five o’clock precisely, and left with the promise that Mrs. Chepstow should be informed of his arrival.

When the door had closed behind the German waiter’s back, Nigel stood for a moment looking around him.  This was the first visit he had paid to Mrs. Chepstow.  He sought for traces of her personality in this room in which she lived.  He thought it looked unusually cosy for a room in an hotel, although he did not discover, as Isaacson would have discovered in a moment, that the furniture had been deftly disarranged.  His eyes roved quickly:  no photographs, no embroideries, one or two extra cushions, birds, a few perfect roses, a few beautifully bound books, the windows widely opened to let the air stream in.  And there was an open piano!  He went over to it and bent down.

“Proficiscere, anima Christiana, de hoc mundo!  Go forth upon thy journey, Christian soul!  Go from this world!”

So she loved “Gerontius,” that intimate musical expression of the wonder and the strangeness of the Soul!  He did not remember he had told her that he loved it.  He stood gazing at the score.  The light wind came in from the river far down below, and the curtains made a faint sound as they moved.  The canaries chirped intermittently.  But Nigel heard the voice of a priest by the side of one who was dying.  And as he looked at the chords supporting the notes on which the priest bade the soul of the man return to its Maker, he seemed to hear them, as he had heard them, played by a great orchestra; to feel the mysterious, the terrible, yet beautiful act of dissolution.

He started.  He had launched himself into space with the soul.  Now, abruptly, he was tethered to earth in the body.  Had he not heard the murmur of a dress announcing the coming of its wearer?  He looked towards the second door of the room, which opened probably into a bedroom.  It was shut, and remained shut.  He came away from the piano.  What books was she fond of reading!  Emerson—­optimism