Delicious nights—­ delicious days—­air that did not weigh you down and make you feel that you must drink—­real inspiration—­real music!  The acrid wood-smoke scent of Paris streets, the glistening cleanness of the Thiergarten, a serenading song in a Florence back street, fireflies in the summer dusk at Sorrento—­he had intoxicating memories of them all!  Slowly the warmth of the brandy died away, and, despite the heat, he felt chill and shuddery.  He shut his eyes, thinking to sleep till she came in.  But very soon he opened them, because—­ a thing usual with him of late—­he saw such ugly things—­faces, vivid, changing as he looked, growing ugly and uglier, becoming all holes—­holes—­horrible holes—­Corruption—­matted, twisted, dark human-tree-roots of faces!  Horrible!  He opened his eyes, for when he did that, they always went.  It was very silent.  No sound from above.  No sound of the dogs.  He would go up and see the baby.

While he was crossing the hall, there came a ring.  He opened the door himself.  A telegram!  He tore the envelope.

“Gyp and the baby are with me letter follows.—­Winton.”

He gave a short laugh, shut the door in the boy’s face, and ran up-stairs; why—­heaven knew!  There was nobody there now!  Nobody!  Did it mean that she had really left him—­was not coming back?  He stopped by the side of Gyp’s bed, and flinging himself forward, lay across it, burying his face.  And he sobbed, as men will, unmanned by drink.  Had he lost her?  Never to see her eyes closing and press his lips against them!  Never to soak his senses in her loveliness!  He leaped up, with the tears still wet on his face.  Lost her?  Absurd!  That calm, prim, devilish Englishman, her father—­he was to blame—­he had worked it all—­stealing the baby!

He went down-stairs and drank some brandy.  It steadied him a little.  What should he do?  “Letter follows.”  Drink, and wait?  Go to Bury Street?  No.  Drink!  Enjoy himself!

He laughed, and, catching up his hat, went out, walking furiously at first, then slower and slower, for his head began to whirl, and, taking a cab, was driven to a restaurant in Soho.  He had eaten nothing but a biscuit since his breakfast, always a small matter, and ordered soup and a flask of their best Chianti—­solids he could not face.  More than two hours he sat, white and silent, perspiration on his forehead, now and then grinning and flourishing his fingers, to the amusement and sometimes the alarm of those sitting near.  But for being known there, he would have been regarded with suspicion.  About half-past nine, there being no more wine, he got up, put a piece of gold on the table, and went out without waiting for his change.

In the streets, the lamps were lighted, but daylight was not quite gone.  He walked unsteadily, toward Piccadilly.  A girl of the town passed and looked up at him.  Staring hard, he hooked his arm in hers without a word; it steadied him, and they walked on thus together.  Suddenly he said: