Suddenly he sat up, listening:  he had heard a step on the stairs.  Some one, no doubt, was coming to see how he was—­to urge him, if he felt better, to go down and join the smokers.  Cautiously he opened his door; yes, it was young Rainer’s step.  Faxon looked down the passage, remembered the other stairway and darted to it.  All he wanted was to get out of the house.  Not another instant would he breathe its abominable air!  What business was it of his, in God’s name?

He reached the opposite end of the lower gallery, and beyond it saw the hall by which, he had entered.  It was empty, and on a long table he recognized his coat and cap among the furs of the other travellers.  He got into his coat, unbolted the door, and plunged into the purifying night.

The darkness was deep, and the cold so intense that for an instant it stopped his breathing.  Then he perceived that only a thin snow was falling, and resolutely set his face for flight.  The trees along the avenue dimly marked his way as he hastened with long strides over the beaten snow.  Gradually, while he walked, the tumult in his brain subsided.  The impulse to fly still drove him forward, but he began to feel that he was flying from a terror of his own creating, and that the most urgent reason for escape was the need of hiding his state, of shunning other eyes’ scrutiny till he should regain his balance.

He had spent the long hours in the train in fruitless broodings on a discouraging situation, and he remembered how his bitterness had turned to exasperation when he found that the Weymore sleigh was not awaiting him.  It was absurd, of course; but, though he had joked with Rainer over Mrs. Culme’s forgetfulness, to confess it had cost a pang.  That was what his rootless life had brought him to:  for lack of a personal stake in things his sensibility was at the mercy of such trivial accidents. ...  Yes; that, and the cold and fatigue, the absence of hope and the haunting sense of starved aptitudes, all these had brought him to the perilous verge over which, once or twice before, his terrified brain had hung.

Why else, in the name of any imaginable logic, human or devilish, should he, a stranger, be singled out for this experience?  What could it mean to him, how was he related to it, what bearing had it on his case? ...  Unless, indeed, it was just because he was a stranger-a stranger everywhere—­because he had no personal life, no warm strong screen of private egotisms to shield him from exposure, that he had developed this abnormal sensitiveness to the vicissitudes of others.  The thought pulled him up with a shudder.  No!  Such a fate was too abominable; all that was strong and sound in him rejected it.  A thousand times better regard himself as ill, disorganized, deluded, than as the predestined victim of such warnings!

He reached the gates and paused before the darkened lodge.  The wind had risen and was sweeping the snow into his face in lacerating streamers.  The cold had him in its grasp again, and he stood uncertain.  Should he put his sanity to the test and go back?  He turned and looked down the dark drive to the house.  A single ray shone through the trees, evoking a picture of the lights, the flowers, the faces grouped about that fatal room.  He turned and plunged out into the road.