shrink from human company, he dreaded more and more to be alone. . . .
But why the devil was he waiting for Ascham? Why didn't
he cut the knot himself? Since he was so unutterably sick of the
whole business, why did he have to call in an outsider to rid him
of this nightmare of living?

He opened the drawer again and laid his hand on the revolver. It
was a small slim ivory toy--just the instrument for a tired
sufferer to give himself a "hypodermic" with. Granice raised it
slowly in one hand, while with the other he felt under the thin
hair at the back of his head, between the ear and the nape. He
knew just where to place the muzzle: he had once got a young
surgeon to show him. And as he found the spot, and lifted the
revolver to it, the inevitable phenomenon occurred. The hand
that held the weapon began to shake, the tremor communicated
itself to his arm, his heart gave a wild leap which sent up a
wave of deadly nausea to his throat, he smelt the powder, he
sickened at the crash of the bullet through his skull, and a
sweat of fear broke out over his forehead and ran down his
quivering face. . .

He laid away the revolver with an oath and, pulling out a
cologne-scented handkerchief, passed it tremulously over his brow
and temples. It was no use--he knew he could never do it in that
way. His attempts at self-destruction were as futile as his
snatches at fame! He couldn't make himself a real life, and he
couldn't get rid of the life he had. And that was why he had
sent for Ascham to help him. . .

The lawyer, over the Camembert and Burgundy, began to excuse