backs of certain large houses skirting Regent's Park, and lights
had begun to show here and there in the windows:in one room a man
was discoverable dressing for dinner, he had not thought it
worth while to lower the blind; in another, some people were
playing billiards. The higher windows reflected a rich glow from
the western sky.

For two or three hours Reardon had been seated in much the same
attitude. Occasionally he dipped his pen into the ink and seemed
about to write: but each time the effort was abortive. At the
head of the paper was inscribed 'Chapter III.,' but that was all.

And now the sky was dusking over; darkness would soon fall.

He looked something older than his years, which were two-and-
thirty; on his face was the pallor of mental suffering. Often he
fell into a fit of absence, and gazed at vacancy with wide,
miserable eyes. Returning to consciousness, he fidgeted nervously
on his chair, dipped his pen for the hundredth time, bent forward
in feverish determination to work. Useless; he scarcely knew what
he wished to put into words, and his brain refused to construct
the simplest sentence.

The colours faded from the sky, and night came quickly. Reardon
threw his arms upon the desk, let his head fall forward, and
remained so, as if asleep.

Presently the door opened, and a young, clear voice made inquiry:

'Don't you want the lamp, Edwin?'