“You remember the result of ’The Lee Shore.’”

Good God—­as if he were likely to forget it!  He re-lived it all now in a drowning flash:  the persistent rejection of the play, his sudden resolve to put it on at his own cost, to spend ten thousand dollars of his inheritance on testing his chance of success—­the fever of preparation, the dry-mouthed agony of the “first night,” the flat fall, the stupid press, his secret rush to Europe to escape the condolence of his friends!

“It isn’t as if you hadn’t tried all kinds.”

No—­he had tried all kinds:  comedy, tragedy, prose and verse, the light curtain-raiser, the short sharp drama, the bourgeois-realistic and the lyrical-romantic—­finally deciding that he would no longer “prostitute his talent” to win popularity, but would impose on the public his own theory of art in the form of five acts of blank verse.  Yes, he had offered them everything—­and always with the same result.

Ten years of it—­ten years of dogged work and unrelieved failure.  The ten years from forty to fifty—­the best ten years of his life!  And if one counted the years before, the silent years of dreams, assimilation, preparation—­then call it half a man’s life-time:  half a man’s life-time thrown away!

And what was he to do with the remaining half?  Well, he had settled that, thank God!  He turned and glanced anxiously at the clock.  Ten minutes past eight—­only ten minutes had been consumed in that stormy rush through his whole past!  And he must wait another twenty minutes for Ascham.  It was one of the worst symptoms of his case that, in proportion as he had grown to shrink from human company, he dreaded more and more to be alone. ...  But why the devil was he waiting for Ascham?  Why didn’t he cut the knot himself?  Since he was so unutterably sick of the whole business, why did he have to call in an outsider to rid him of this nightmare of living?

He opened the drawer again and laid his hand on the revolver.  It was a small slim ivory toy—­just the instrument for a tired sufferer to give himself a “hypodermic” with.  Granice raised it slowly in one hand, while with the other he felt under the thin hair at the back of his head, between the ear and the nape.  He knew just where to place the muzzle:  he had once got a young surgeon to show him.  And as he found the spot, and lifted the revolver to it, the inevitable phenomenon occurred.  The hand that held the weapon began to shake, the tremor communicated itself to his arm, his heart gave a wild leap which sent up a wave of deadly nausea to his throat, he smelt the powder, he sickened at the crash of the bullet through his skull, and a sweat of fear broke out over his forehead and ran down his quivering face...

He laid away the revolver with an oath and, pulling out a cologne-scented handkerchief, passed it tremulously over his brow and temples.  It was no use—­he knew he could never do it in that way.  His attempts at self-destruction were as futile as his snatches at fame!  He couldn’t make himself a real life, and he couldn’t get rid of the life he had.  And that was why he had sent for Ascham to help him...