clothes, at any rate."

No thanks--no sign even of having heard. The man had moved to the
window. He seemed fascinated by the view. There was a silence between
them. Then he waved his hand towards that red glow which hung like a
mist of fire over the city.

"A cauldron," he muttered, "a seething cauldron of stinking vice and
imperishable iniquity. Once I lodged somewhere near here. I have stood
at a window like this by the hour, and my heart has leaped like a boy's
at the sound of that roar. Douglas, those old Methodists up in the
hill-village were not so far from the truth--not so far from the truth,
after all. How I laughed when they wagged their old grey heads and told
me that the great South road was the road to Hell."

Life is what we make it, here or in the hills Douglas said, with a
sententiousness which sounded to himself like ugly irony.

The man at the window drew himself up. For a moment there was a gleam
of the old self.

"For the cattle, ay, Douglas," he answered. "For such as you and me, it
is what the woman makes it. I'm going. I've no ill-will towards you,
but if you hinder or follow me, I'll shoot you like a dog."

So he passed out and was lost in the byways. Douglas remained sitting
at the window with folded arms.