In his room the sight of pen, ink and paper was a sore temptation.  At Odessa he had from time to time written what he thought poetry (it was not quite that, yet as verse not contemptible), and now, recalling to memory some favourite lines, he asked himself whether he might venture to write them out and send them to Miss Derwent.  Could he leave England, this time, without confessing himself to her?  Faint heart—­he mused over the proverb.  The thought of a laboured letter repelled him, and perhaps her reply—­if she replied at all—­would be a blow scarce endurable.  In the offer of a copy of verses there is no undue presumption; it is a consecrated form of homage; it demands no immediate response.  But were they good enough, these rhymes of his?—­He would decide to-morrow, his last day.

And as was his habit, he read a little before sleeping, in one of the half-dozen volumes which he had chosen for this journey.  It was Les Chants du Crepuscule, and thus the page sang: 

“Laisse-toi donc aimer!  Car l’amour, c’est la vie,
C’est tout ce qu’on regrette et tout ce qu’on envie
Quand on voit sa jeunesse au couchant decliner. 
Sans lui rien n’est complet, sans lui rien ne rayonne. 
La beante c’est le front. l’amour c’est la couronne. 
Laisse-toi couronner!”

His own lines sounded a sad jingle; he grew ashamed of them, and in the weariness of his passions he fell asleep.

He had left till to-morrow the visit he owed to John Jacks.  It was not pleasant, the thought of calling at the house at Queen’s Gate; Mrs. Jacks might have heard strange things about him on that mad evening three years ago.  Yet in decency he must go; perhaps, too, in self-interest.  And at the wonted hour he went.

Fortunately; for John Jacks seemed unfeignedly glad to see him, and talked with him in private for half an hour after the observances of the drawing-room, where Mrs. Jacks had been very sweetly proper and properly sweet.  In the library, much more at his ease, Otway told what he had before him, all the details of his commercial project.

“It occurs to me,” said John Jacks—­who was looking far from well, and at times spoke with an effort—­“that I may be able to be of some use in this matter.  I’ll think about it, and—­leave me your address—­I shall probably write to you.  And now tell me all about your father.  He is hale and hearty?”

“In excellent health, I think,” Piers replied cheerfully.  “Dante suffices him still.”

“Odd that you should have come to-day.  I don’t know why, I was thinking of your father all last night—­I don’t sleep very well just now.  I thought of the old days, a lifetime ago; and I said to myself that I would write him a letter.  So I will, to-day.  And in a month or two I shall see him.  I’m a walking-copybook-line; procrastination—­nothing but putting off pleasures and duties these last years; I don’t know how it is.  But certainly I will go over to Hawes when I’m in Yorkshire.  And I’ll write today, tell him I’ve seen you.”