his own bungalow. He could not deny that his walk with Joicey had only
served to depress his spirits, and he was sorry to think that his friend
was so obviously in bad health. The world seemed an uncomfortable place,
full of gloomy surprises, and Hartley wished that he had a wife to go
back to. Not a superb being like Mrs. Wilder, who was encircled by the
halo of High Romance, but just an ordinary wife, with a friendly smile
and a way of talking about everyday things while she darned socks.
Somewhere in his domestic heart Hartley considered sock-mending a
beautiful and symbolic act, and yet he could not picture Mrs. Wilder
occupied in such a fashion.

A man with a wife to go back to is never at the same loose end as a man
who has no need ever to be punctual for a solitary meal, and Hartley
walked quickly because he wanted to get clear of his depression, rather
than for any reason that compelled him to be up to time.

The gathering darkness drew out the flare over the city, and, here and
there, lamps dotted the road, until, turning up a short cut, he was into
the region of trams once more. The lighted cars, filled with gay Burmese
and soldiers from the British Regiment, and European-clad, dark-skinned
creatures of mixed races, looked cheerful and encouraged to better
thoughts. Hartley crossed the busy thoroughfare below the Pagoda steps
and went on quickly, for he recognized the outline of Mhtoon Pah on his
way to burn amber candles before his newly-erected shrine. He was in no
mood to talk to the curio dealer just then, and he avoided him carefully
and plunged down a tree-bowered road that led to the bridge, and from
the bridge to the hill-rise where his own gate stood open.

It pleased him to see that lamps were lighted in the house, and he felt
conscious that he was hungry, and would be glad of dinner; he made up