spray from a fountain of verdure. The silence held the suggestion of
mighty spiritual things astir. At least the heaven was not of brass, if
the earth continued to be of adamant. On the contrary, the sky was high,
soft, dim, star-bestrewn, ineffable. It was spacious; it was free; it
was the home of glorious things; it was the medium of the eternal.

He was not reassured; he was not even comforted; what relief he got came
only from a feeling--a fancy, perhaps--that the weight had been eased,
that he was freed for a minute from the crushing pressure of the
inevitable. It would return again and break him down, but for the moment
it was lifted, giving him room and power to breathe. He did
breathe--long deep draughts of the cool night air that brought
refreshment and something like strength to struggle on.

He came back into the room. His pens and papers were scattered on the
floor, and ink from the overturned inkstand was running out on the
Oriental rug. It was the kind of detail that before this evening would
have shocked him; but nothing mattered now. He was too indifferent to
lift his hand and put the inkstand back into its place. Instead, he
threw himself on a couch, turning his face to the still open window and
drinking in with thirsty gasps the blessed, revivifying air.




V


Guion awoke in a chill, gray light, to find himself covered with a rug,
and his daughter, wrapped in a white dressing-gown, bending above him.