Rudyard Byng was his friend, whose bread he had eaten, whom he had known since they were boys at school.  He remembered acutely Rudyard’s words to him that fateful night when he had dined with Jasmine alone—­“You will have much to talk about, to say to each other, such old friends as you are.”  He recalled how Rudyard had left them, trusting them, happy in the thought that Jasmine would have a pleasant evening with the old friend who had first introduced him to her, and that the old friend would enjoy his eager hospitality.  Rudyard had blown his friend’s trumpet wherever men would listen to him; had proclaimed Stafford as the coming man:  and this was what he had done to Rudyard!

This was what he had done; but what did he propose to do?  What of the future?  To go on in miserable intrigue, twisting the nature, making demands upon life out of all those usual ways in which walk love and companionship—­paths that lead through gardens of poppies, maybe, but finding grey wilderness at the end?  Never, never the right to take the loved one by the hand before all the world and say:  “We two are one, and the reckoning of the world must be made with both.”  Never to have the right to stand together in pride before the wide-eyed many and say:  “See what you choose to see, say what you choose to say, do what you choose to do, we do not care.”  The open sharing of worldly success; the inner joys which the world may not see—­these things could not be for Jasmine and for him.

Yet he loved her.  Every fibre in his being thrilled to the thought of her.  But as his passion beat like wild music in his veins, a blindness suddenly stole into his sight, and in deep agitation he got up, opened the window, and looked out into the night.  For long he stood gazing into the quiet street, and watched a daughter of the night, with dilatory steps and neglected mien, go up towards the more frequented quarter of Piccadilly.  Life was grim in so much of it, futile in more, feeble at the best, foolish in the light of a single generation or a single century or a thousand years.  It was only reasonable in the vast proportions of eternity.  It had only little sips of happiness to give, not long draughts of joy.  Who drank deep, long draughts—­who of all the men and women he had ever known?  Who had had the primrose path without the rain of fire, the cinders beneath the feet, the gins and the nets spread for them?

Yet might it not be that here and there people were permanently happy?  And had things been different, might not he and Jasmine have been of the radiant few?  He desired her above all things; he was willing to sacrifice all—­all for her, if need be; and yet there was that which he could not, would not face.  All or nothing—­all or nothing.  If he must drink of the cup of sorrow and passion mixed, then it would be from the full cup.

With a stifled exclamation he sat down and began to write.  Again and again he stopped to think, his face lined and worn and old; then he wrote on and on.  Ambition, hope, youth, the Foreign Office, the chancelleries of Europe, the perils of impending war, were all forgotten, or sunk into the dusky streams of subconsciousness.  One thought dominated him.  He was playing the game that has baffled all men, the game of eluding destiny; and, like all men, he must break his heart in the playing.