of his obstinacy with regard to reading at breakfast? How explain to
anyone what he suffered in his nerves, in his pride, in the outraged
habitudes of a lifetime?

That evening he did not return to Wood Green. Afraid of questions
if he showed himself in the old resorts, he spent some hours in a
billiard-room near King's Cross, and towards midnight took a bedroom
under the same roof. On going to business next day, he awaited with
tremors either a telegram or a visit from his wife; but the whole day
passed, and he heard nothing. After dark he walked once more about the
beloved streets, pausing now and then to look up at the windows of this
or that well remembered house. Ah, if he durst but enter and engage a
lodging! Impossible--for ever impossible!

He slept in the same place as on the night before. And again a day
passed without any sort of inquiry from Wood Green. When evening came
he went home.

Mrs. Jordan behaved as though he had returned from business in the usual
way. 'Is it raining?' she asked, with a half-smile. And her husband
replied, in as matter-of-fact a tone as he could command, 'No, it
isn't.' There was no mention between them of his absence. That night,
Mrs. Jordan talked for an hour or two of his bad habit of stepping on
the paint when he went up and down stairs, then fell calmly asleep.

But Mr. Jordan did not sleep for a long time. What! was he, after all,
to be allowed his liberty _out_ of doors, provided he relinquished it
within? Was it really the case that his wife, satisfied with her house
and furniture and income, did not care a jot whether he stayed away or
came home? There, indeed, gleamed a hope. When Mr. Jordan slept, he