He had come to the house the night before, dressed shabbily with the pitiable respectability of a defeated man.  He had entered droopingly with bent shoulders and hopeless hang of head.  In his own sphere he was a man who held himself well.  He had let fall a few dispirited sentences when he had engaged his back room from the woman of the house, and she had recognized him as one of the luckless.  In fact, she had hesitated a moment before his unreliable look until he had taken out money from his pocket and paid his rent for a week in advance.  She would have that at least for her trouble, he had said to himself.  He should not occupy the room after to-morrow.  In his own home some days would pass before his household began to make inquiries.  He had told his servants that he was going over to Paris for a change.  He would be safe and deep in his pauper’s grave a week before they asked each other why they did not hear from him.  All was in order.  One of the mocking agonies was that living was done for.  He had ceased to live.  Work, pleasure, sun, moon, and stars had lost their meaning.  He stood and looked at the most radiant loveliness of land and sky and sea and felt nothing.  Success brought greater wealth each day without stirring a pulse of pleasure, even in triumph.  There was nothing left but the awful days and awful nights to which he knew physicians could give their scientific name, but had no healing for.  He had gone far enough.  He would go no farther.  To-morrow it would have been over long hours.  And there would have been no public declaiming over the humiliating pitifulness of his end.  And what did it matter?

How thick the fog was outside—­thick enough for a man to lose himself in it.  The yellow mist which had crept in under the doors and through the crevices of the window-sashes gave a ghostly look to the room—­a ghastly, abnormal look, he said to himself.  The fire was smouldering instead of blazing.  But what did it matter?  He was going out.  He had not bought the pistol last night—­like a fool.  Somehow his brain had been so tired and crowded that he had forgotten.

“Forgotten.”  He mentally repeated the word as he got out of bed.  By this time to-morrow he should have forgotten everything.  This time to-morrow.  His mind repeated that also, as he began to dress himself.  Where should he be?  Should he be anywhere?  Suppose he awakened again—­ to something as bad as this?  How did a man get out of his body?  After the crash and shock what happened?  Did one find oneself standing beside the Thing and looking down at it?  It would not be a good thing to stand and look down on—­even for that which had deserted it.  But having torn oneself loose from it and its devilish aches and pains, one would not care—­one would see how little it all mattered.  Anything else must be better than this—­the thing for which there was a scientific name but no healing.  He had taken all the drugs, he had obeyed all the medical orders, and here he was after that last hell of a night—­dressing himself in a back bedroom of a cheap lodging-house to go out and buy a pistol in this damned fog.