’And there is a sense of blessed finality in such discretion, which is what we all more or less sincerely are ready to admit—­for what else is it that makes the idea of death supportable?  End!  Finis! the potent word that exorcises from the house of life the haunting shadow of fate.  This is what—­notwithstanding the testimony of my eyes and his own earnest assurances—­I miss when I look back upon Jim’s success.  While there’s life there is hope, truly; but there is fear too.  I don’t mean to say that I regret my action, nor will I pretend that I can’t sleep o’ nights in consequence; still, the idea obtrudes itself that he made so much of his disgrace while it is the guilt alone that matters.  He was not—­if I may say so—­clear to me.  He was not clear.  And there is a suspicion he was not clear to himself either.  There were his fine sensibilities, his fine feelings, his fine longings—­a sort of sublimated, idealised selfishness.  He was—­if you allow me to say so—­very fine; very fine—­and very unfortunate.  A little coarser nature would not have borne the strain; it would have had to come to terms with itself—­with a sigh, with a grunt, or even with a guffaw; a still coarser one would have remained invulnerably ignorant and completely uninteresting.

’But he was too interesting or too unfortunate to be thrown to the dogs, or even to Chester.  I felt this while I sat with my face over the paper and he fought and gasped, struggling for his breath in that terribly stealthy way, in my room; I felt it when he rushed out on the verandah as if to fling himself over—­and didn’t; I felt it more and more all the time he remained outside, faintly lighted on the background of night, as if standing on the shore of a sombre and hopeless sea.

’An abrupt heavy rumble made me lift my head.  The noise seemed to roll away, and suddenly a searching and violent glare fell on the blind face of the night.  The sustained and dazzling flickers seemed to last for an unconscionable time.  The growl of the thunder increased steadily while I looked at him, distinct and black, planted solidly upon the shores of a sea of light.  At the moment of greatest brilliance the darkness leaped back with a culminating crash, and he vanished before my dazzled eyes as utterly as though he had been blown to atoms.  A blustering sigh passed; furious hands seemed to tear at the shrubs, shake the tops of the trees below, slam doors, break window-panes, all along the front of the building.  He stepped in, closing the door behind him, and found me bending over the table:  my sudden anxiety as to what he would say was very great, and akin to a fright.  “May I have a cigarette?” he asked.  I gave a push to the box without raising my head.  “I want—­want—­tobacco,” he muttered.  I became extremely buoyant.  “Just a moment.”  I grunted pleasantly.  He took a few steps here and there.  “That’s over,” I heard him say.  A single distant clap of thunder came from the sea like a gun of distress.  “The monsoon breaks up early this year,” he remarked conversationally, somewhere behind me.  This encouraged me to turn round, which I did as soon as I had finished addressing the last envelope.  He was smoking greedily in the middle of the room, and though he heard the stir I made, he remained with his back to me for a time.