The man of the world awoke with a sense of being lost to that world, and a dim recollection of having been called a ‘limit.’  He sat for half an hour in the dawn and the armchair where he had slept—­perhaps the unhappiest half-hour he had ever spent, for even to a Dartie there is something tragic about an end.  And he knew that he had reached it.  Never again would he sleep in his dining-room and wake with the light filtering through those curtains bought by Winifred at Nickens and Jarveys with the money of James.  Never again eat a devilled kidney at that rose-wood table, after a roll in the sheets and a hot bath.  He took his note case from his dress coat pocket.  Four hundred pounds, in fives and tens—­the remainder of the proceeds of his half of Sleeve-links, sold last night, cash down, to George Forsyte, who, having won over the race, had not conceived the sudden dislike to the animal which he himself now felt.  The ballet was going to Buenos Aires the day after to-morrow, and he was going too.  Full value for the pearls had not yet been received; he was only at the soup.

He stole upstairs.  Not daring to have a bath, or shave (besides, the water would be cold), he changed his clothes and packed stealthily all he could.  It was hard to leave so many shining boots, but one must sacrifice something.  Then, carrying a valise in either hand, he stepped out onto the landing.  The house was very quiet—­that house where he had begotten his four children.  It was a curious moment, this, outside the room of his wife, once admired, if not perhaps loved, who had called him ‘the limit.’  He steeled himself with that phrase, and tiptoed on; but the next door was harder to pass.  It was the room his daughters slept in.  Maud was at school, but Imogen would be lying there; and moisture came into Dartie’s early morning eyes.  She was the most like him of the four, with her dark hair, and her luscious brown glance.  Just coming out, a pretty thing!  He set down the two valises.  This almost formal abdication of fatherhood hurt him.  The morning light fell on a face which worked with real emotion.  Nothing so false as penitence moved him; but genuine paternal feeling, and that melancholy of ‘never again.’  He moistened his lips; and complete irresolution for a moment paralysed his legs in their check trousers.  It was hard—­hard to be thus compelled to leave his home!  “D—–­nit!” he muttered, “I never thought it would come to this.”  Noises above warned him that the maids were beginning to get up.  And grasping the two valises, he tiptoed on downstairs.  His cheeks were wet, and the knowledge of that was comforting, as though it guaranteed the genuineness of his sacrifice.  He lingered a little in the rooms below, to pack all the cigars he had, some papers, a crush hat, a silver cigarette box, a Ruff’s Guide.  Then, mixing himself a stiff whisky and soda, and lighting a cigarette, he stood hesitating before a photograph