all confidence in myself; and it was as if he too had given me up, for he mumbled like a man thinking half aloud.  “Went away . . . went into hospitals. . . .  Not one of them would face it. . . .  They! . . .”  He moved his hand slightly to imply disdain.  “But I’ve got to get over this thing, and I mustn’t shirk any of it or . . .  I won’t shirk any of it.”  He was silent.  He gazed as though he had been haunted.  His unconscious face reflected the passing expressions of scorn, of despair, of resolution—­reflected them in turn, as a magic mirror would reflect the gliding passage of unearthly shapes.  He lived surrounded by deceitful ghosts, by austere shades.  “Oh! nonsense, my dear fellow,” I began.  He had a movement of impatience.  “You don’t seem to understand,” he said incisively; then looking at me without a wink, “I may have jumped, but I don’t run away.”  “I meant no offence,” I said; and added stupidly, “Better men than you have found it expedient to run, at times.”  He coloured all over, while in my confusion I half-choked myself with my own tongue.  “Perhaps so,” he said at last, “I am not good enough; I can’t afford it.  I am bound to fight this thing down—­I am fighting it now.”  I got out of my chair and felt stiff all over.  The silence was embarrassing, and to put an end to it I imagined nothing better but to remark, “I had no idea it was so late,” in an airy tone. . . .  “I dare say you have had enough of this,” he said brusquely:  “and to tell you the truth”—­he began to look round for his hat—­“so have I.”

’Well! he had refused this unique offer.  He had struck aside my helping hand; he was ready to go now, and beyond the balustrade the night seemed to wait for him very still, as though he had been marked down for its prey.  I heard his voice.  “Ah! here it is.”  He had found his hat.  For a few seconds we hung in the wind.  “What will you do after—­after . . .”  I asked very low.  “Go to the dogs as likely as not,” he answered in a gruff mutter.  I had recovered my wits in a measure, and judged best to take it lightly.  “Pray remember,” I said, “that I should like very much to see you again before you go.”  “I don’t know what’s to prevent you.  The damned thing won’t make me invisible,” he said with intense bitterness,—­“no such luck.”  And then at the moment of taking leave he treated me to a ghastly muddle of dubious stammers and movements, to an awful display of hesitations.  God forgive him—­me!  He had taken it into his fanciful head that I was likely to make some difficulty as to shaking hands.  It was too awful for words.  I believe I shouted suddenly at him as you would bellow to a man you saw about to walk over a cliff; I remember our voices being raised, the appearance of a miserable grin on his face, a crushing clutch on my hand, a nervous laugh.  The candle spluttered out, and the thing was over at last, with a groan that floated up to me in the dark.  He got himself away somehow.  The night swallowed his form.  He was a horrible bungler.  Horrible.  I heard the quick crunch-crunch of the gravel under his boots.  He was running.  Absolutely running, with nowhere to go to.  And he was not yet four-and-twenty.’