a movement of pity at the sight of his haggard face--she consented to
leave him. Only, what was he going to do? she asked suspiciously; write
those rubbishing stories of his? Well, he must promise not to stay up
more than half-an-hour at the latest--only until he had smoked one pipe.

Willoughby promised, as he would have promised anything on earth to
secure to himself a half-hour's peace and solitude. Esther groped for
her slippers, which were kicked off under the table; scratched four or
five matches along the box and threw them away before she succeeded in
lighting her candle; set it down again to contemplate her tear-swollen
reflection in the chimney-glass, and burst out laughing.

'What a fright I do look, to be sure!' she remarked complacently, and
again thrust her two hands up through her disordered curls. Then,
holding the candle at such an angle that the grease ran over on to the
carpet, she gave Willoughby another vehement kiss and trailed out of the
room with an ineffectual attempt to close the door behind her.

Willoughby got up to shut it himself, and wondered why it was that
Esther never did any one mortal thing efficiently or well. Good God! how
irritable he felt. It was impossible to write. He must find an outlet
for his impatience, rend or mend something. He began to straighten the
room, but a wave of disgust came over him before the task was fairly
commenced. What was the use? Tomorrow all would be bad as before. What
was the use of doing anything? He sat down by the table and leaned his
head upon his hands.

* * * * *

The past came back to him in pictures: his boyhood's past first of all.