away.  At moments, he desired revenge for his failure to get near her spiritually, and was ready to commit follies of all kinds.  He was only kept in control at all by his work.  For he did work hard; though, even there, something was lacking.  He had all the qualities of making good, except the moral backbone holding them together, which alone could give him his rightful—­as he thought—­pre-eminence.  It often surprised and vexed him to find that some contemporary held higher rank than himself.

Threading the streets in his cab, he mused: 

“Did I do anything that really shocked her last night?  Why didn’t I wait for her this morning and find out the worst?” And his lips twisted awry—­for to find out the worst was not his forte.  Meditation, seeking as usual a scapegoat, lighted on Rosek.  Like most egoists addicted to women, he had not many friends.  Rosek was the most constant.  But even for him, Fiorsen had at once the contempt and fear that a man naturally uncontrolled and yet of greater scope has for one of less talent but stronger will-power.  He had for him, too, the feeling of a wayward child for its nurse, mixed with the need that an artist, especially an executant artist, feels for a connoisseur and patron with well-lined pockets.

‘Curse Paul!’ he thought.  ’He must know—­he does know—­that brandy of his goes down like water.  Trust him, he saw I was getting silly!  He had some game on.  Where did I go after?  How did I get home?’ And again:  ‘Did I hurt Gyp?’ If the servants had seen—­that would be the worst; that would upset her fearfully!  And he laughed.  Then he had a fresh access of fear.  He didn’t know her, never knew what she was thinking or feeling, never knew anything about her.  And he thought angrily:  ’That’s not fair!  I don’t hide myself from her.  I am as free as nature; I let her see everything.  What did I do?  That maid looked very queerly at me this morning!’ And suddenly he said to the driver:  “Bury Street, St. James’s.”  He could find out, at all events, whether Gyp had been to her father’s.  The thought of Winton ever afflicted him; and he changed his mind several times before the cab reached that little street, but so swiftly that he had not time to alter his instructions to the driver.  A light sweat broke out on his forehead while he was waiting for the door to be opened.

“Mrs. Fiorsen here?”

“No, sir.”

“Not been here this morning?”

“No, sir.”

He shrugged away the thought that he ought to give some explanation of his question, and got into the cab again, telling the man to drive to Curzon Street.  If she had not been to “that Aunt Rosamund” either it would be all right.  She had not.  There was no one else she would go to.  And, with a sigh of relief, he began to feel hungry, having had no breakfast.  He would go to Rosek’s, borrow the money to pay his cab, and lunch there.  But Rosek was not in.  He would have to go home to get the cab paid.  The driver seemed to eye him queerly now, as though conceiving doubts about the fare.