was no bent towards suicide; and he scanned every horizon. Once again he
thought of his uncle. Five years ago he had written, asking him for the
loan of a hundred pounds. He had received ten. And how vain it would be to
write a second time! A few pounds would only serve to prolong his misery.
No; he would not drift from degradation to degradation.

He only glanced at the letter which Annie had brought up with the copy of
_The Modern Review_. It was clearly a lawyer's letter. Should he open it?
Why not spare himself the pain? He could alter nothing; and in these last
days---- Leaving the thought unfinished, he sought for his keys; he went to
his box, unlocked it, and took out a small paper package. Of the fifty
pounds he had received from Ford about twenty remained: he had been poorer
before, but hardly quite so hopeless. He scanned every horizon--all were
barred. The thought of suicide, and with it the instinctive shrinking from
it, came into his mind again. Suppose he took, that very night, an overdose
of chloral? He tried to put the thought from him, and returned, a little
dazed and helpless, to his chair. Had the critic in _The Modern Review_
told him the truth? Was he incapable of earning a living? It seemed so.
Above all, was he incapable of finishing _The Gipsy_ as he intended? No;
that he felt was a lie. Give him six months' quiet, free from worry and all
anxiety, and he would do it. Many a year had passed since he had enjoyed a
month of quiet; and glancing again at the letter on the table, he thought
that perhaps at that very moment a score of gallery boys were hissing his
play. Perhaps at that very moment Ford was making up his mind to announce
the last six nights of _Divorce_. At a quarter to twelve he heard Rose's
foot on the stairs. He opened the door.

'How did the piece go to-night?'

'Pretty well.'