down before a flood of moral lassitude. How could he continue to
play his part, to keep his front to the enemy, with this poison of
indifference stealing through his veins? He tried to brace
himself with the remembrance of his wife's scorn. He had not
forgotten the note on which their conversation had closed. If he
had ever wondered how she would receive the truth he wondered no
longer--she would despise him. But this lent a new insidiousness
to his temptation, since her contempt would be a refuge from his
own. He said to himself that, since he no longer cared for the
consequences, he could at least acquit himself of speaking in
self-defence. What he wanted now was not immunity but
castigation: his wife's indignation might still reconcile him to
himself. Therein lay his one hope of regeneration; her scorn was
the moral antiseptic that he needed, her comprehension the one
balm that could heal him. . . .

When they left the dinner he was so afraid of speaking that he let
her drive home alone, and went to the club with Flamel.



IX


HE rose next morning with the resolve to know what Alexa thought
of him. It was not anchoring in a haven, but lying to in a storm--
he felt the need of a temporary lull in the turmoil of his
sensations.

He came home late, for they were dining alone and he knew that