He was in Keith’s hands, Keith would know what was to be done.  But he had not gone three hundred yards before he felt so utterly weary, body and soul, that if he had but had a pistol in his pocket he would have shot himself in the street.  Not even the thought of the girl—­this young unfortunate with her strange devotion, who had kept him straight these last five months, who had roused in him a depth of feeling he had never known before—­would have availed against that sudden black defection.  Why go on—­a waif at the mercy of his own nature, a straw blown here and there by every gust which rose in him?  Why not have done with it for ever, and take it out in sleep?

He was approaching the fatal street, where he and the girl, that early morning, had spent the hours clutched together, trying in the refuge of love to forget for a moment their horror and fear.  Should he go in?  He had promised Keith not to.  Why had he promised?  He caught sight of himself in a chemist’s lighted window.  Miserable, shadowy brute!  And he remembered suddenly a dog he had picked up once in the streets of Pera, a black-and-white creature—­different from the other dogs, not one of their breed, a pariah of pariahs, who had strayed there somehow.  He had taken it home to the house where he was staying, contrary to all custom of the country; had got fond of it; had shot it himself, sooner than leave it behind again to the mercies of its own kind in the streets.  Twelve years ago!  And those sleevelinks made of little Turkish coins he had brought back for the girl at the hairdresser’s in Chancery Lane where he used to get shaved—­pretty creature, like a wild rose.  He had asked of her a kiss for payment.  What queer emotion when she put her face forward to his lips—­a sort of passionate tenderness and shame, at the softness and warmth of that flushed cheek, at her beauty and trustful gratitude.  She would soon have given herself to him—­that one!  He had never gone there again!  And to this day he did not know why he had abstained; to this day he did not know whether he were glad or sorry not to have plucked that rose.  He must surely have been very different then!  Queer business, life—­queer, queer business!—­to go through it never knowing what you would do next.  Ah! to be like Keith, steady, buttoned-up in success; a brass pot, a pillar of society!  Once, as a boy, he had been within an ace of killing Keith, for sneering at him.  Once in Southern Italy he had been near killing a driver who was flogging his horse.  And now, that dark-faced, swinish bully who had ruined the girl he had grown to love—­he had done it!  Killed him!  Killed a man!

He who did not want to hurt a fly.  The chemist’s window comforted him with the sudden thought that he had at home that which made him safe, in case they should arrest him.  He would never again go out without some of those little white tablets sewn into the lining of his coat.  Restful, even exhilarating thought!  They said a man should not take his own life.  Let them taste horror—­those glib citizens!  Let them live as that girl had lived, as millions lived all the world over, under their canting dogmas!  A man might rather even take his life than watch their cursed inhumanities.