forgotten what England looks like and I've got over the desire to go
back there, and so I rot through the rains and the steam and the tepid
cold weather, and it isn't doing me any good at all."

They walked into the drawing-room, Hartley with his hand on Joicey's
shoulder. The Banker sat for a little time making a visible effort to
talk easily, but long before his usual hour for leaving he pulled out
his watch and looked at it.

"It may seem rude to clear off so soon, but I'm tired, Hartley, and
shall be much obliged if I may shout for my carriage."

He looked tired enough to make any excuse of exhaustion or ill-health
quite a valid one, and Hartley was concerned for his friend.

"Don't overdo it, Joicey," he said.

"Overdo what?"

Joicey got up with the heavy lift of an old, weary man, and yet there
was not two years between him and Hartley.

"The insomnia," said Hartley.

"Good night," replied Joicey shortly, and closed the carriage-door
behind him.

He drove along the dark roads, his arms in the window-straps and his
head bent forward. The head of the Mangadone Banking Firm was suffering,
if not from insomnia, from something that was heavier than the heaviest