offer. There has been plenty of time for a reply, but she doesn't answer.'

He had in his hand what I saw was a bookseller's catalogue, just delivered
by the postman. Mechanically he tore off the wrapper and even glanced over
the first page. Then, as if conscience stabbed him, he flung the thing
violently away.

'The chance has gone!' he exclaimed, taking a hurried step or two along the
little strip of floor left free by the mountain of books. 'Of course she
said she would rather stay in London! Of course she said what she knew
would please me! When--when did she ever say anything else! And I was cruel
enough--base enough--to let her make the sacrifice!' He waved his arms
frantically. 'Didn't I know what it cost her? Couldn't I see in her face
how her heart leapt at the hope of going to live in the country! I knew
what she was suffering; I _knew_ it, I tell you! And, like a selfish
coward, I let her suffer--I let her drop down and die--die!'

'Any hour,' I said, 'may bring you the reply from Mrs. Keeting. Of course
it will be favourable, and the good news--'

'Too late, I have killed her! That woman won't write. She's one of the
vulgar rich, and we offended her pride; and such as she never forgive.'

He sat down for a moment, but started up again in an agony of mental
suffering.

'She is dying--and there, there, that's what has killed her!' He
gesticulated wildly towards the books. 'I have sold her life for those.
Oh!--oh!'